Chapter 15: The Voice of God  060525

      When the tail end of A Company of the Black Lions (2/28th) trickled into LZ X-Ray, artillery officer Hearne and other key officers had already joined Lazzell at the spot where the command bunker was going to be dug. They stood there listening to Lazzell flap his jaws when no one should have been standing around jawing in the first place. Instead, Lazzell should have already finished having Hearne call for multiple artillery barrages to land on previously registered points around the clearing. Napalm and cluster bombs should have also been used to clear away any ambushers and their equipment. Yet when I landed hours later, the area was as pristine as ever. After the preparation, he should have had his soldiers double-time around the clearing inside the wood line, moving around each side of the large clearing and toward the north end. This should have been done with the same speed and urgency as an air assault. Soon after that, Lazzell should have been walking the perimeter, ensuring defensive positions were being dug in the correct locations. Those DePuy bunkers needed to be constructed immediately.

     The two trailing companies of the Black Lions should have been ready to double time into position behind the Rangers (1/16th), instead of being allowed to linger far behind. There had been numerous warnings of enemy activity in and around the area, which more than suggested that nonchalantly strolling into LZ X-Ray could be suicide. Triet's sappers were keeping him abreast of when Lazzell would arrive at LZ X-Ray. I talked about that in the last chapter. Yet, it's evident from reports and maps that Lazzell was taking a very cavalier attitude toward the entire march, from LZ Rufe to LZ X-Ray. Sergeant Murry, himself, later verified that no one was told to dig in when his men first arrived. Instead, the men were allowed to rest and eat lunch. Consequently, they fell into a much more relaxed state of mind than they should have. Boxes of machine gun ammo were scattered around where they were not in easy reach of the gunners. Some men started writing letters home. Some took naps. This type of relaxed state would never have been allowed by Dick. Yet, it would be wrong to blame what happened next entirely on Lazzell. The buck did not stop with him. He did not know what he didn't know. He had convinced himself that he had arrived as a commander, and there were no protocols in place to reshape that faulty self-evaluation.

     When the attack started, Hearne was standing in a circle of key personnel. Suddenly, sporadic gunfire could be heard in the background. Triet's tree snipers fired those first shots. They should have been burned up in the prepping, which never took place. Now, Triet was able to telephone orders to those snipers to start shooting Lazzell's men in the clearing. He was able to telephone them on the same communication wire, which Lazzell should also have destroyed during the preparation. Just before that shooting started, Triet's machine gunners were ordered to move into previously designated positions around the perimeter. They held their fire until hordes of uniformed conscripts could be funneled from ox cart trails into shallow, prone shelters just in front of them. These had been dug earlier. The primary purpose of those tree snipers was to force the Americans to keep their heads down until the conscripts could be moved into position. Launching the attack was made much easier by the lack of prepping, but also by grunts being allowed to settle into a relaxed state with no urgency to start establishing permanent fortified positions. It was obvious to Triet that there would be no further prepping because those big, slow-moving Chinooks blocked the flyway near the clearing, as they started arriving with supplies. These conscripts moved into positions just as they had practiced several times before. That's what left all those many footprints which Point-man Donnie Gunby had spotted earlier. Neglecting to prep the area was Lazzell's gift to Triet, and Triet wasn't about to waste such a gift.

      Once Triet's snipers were permitted to start firing, they soon realized that these Chinooks made much better targets than individual soldiers in the clearing. The Chinooks were large and slow. They were slowed even more because they had webbing dangling from under their weather-beaten bellies. That webbing was crammed with all sorts of resupplies. The diversion these Chinooks offered snipers probably saved some American lives. Only one man in the A Company of the Black Lions was killed in the clearing by a sniper. His name was Lloyd Wohlford. His friend, Spec-4 Canute, was lying beside him when he was fatally shot. Canute immediately drew Sergeant Bivens' attention to what was happening. The sergeant took it upon himself to have his squad break formation with the rest of his company and move closer to the protection of the wood line. Others along the entire length of Company A followed their lead. Sergeant Bivens' unilateral decision to break formation and move proved one thing. It proved that he understood that the most essential part of his job was looking after his men. I do not believe most field commanders in Vietnam understood this.

      The enemy attack was more concentrated on the northwest corner of the perimeter, where several ox cart trails converged into the clearing. I will not provide a detailed account of the battle. In his book, David Hearne has already provided many valuable details, which he gathered from eyewitness accounts of those who were present. Sergeant Murry was in the heaviest fighting on the north end. He also recounted many details of this battle in his book. The title of Hearne's book is "June 17, 1967 - Battle of Xom Bo II." Murry's book is entitled "Content With My Wages: A Sergeant's Story". Sergeant Murry's two machine gunners, in second platoon, were among the very first exposed to the opening attack. They were first hit with machine gun fire and rocket launchers. Then whistles were blown signaling for the machine gunners to halt their fire and the conscripts to move out of their shallow trenches and attack the perimeter. Jose Garcia heard the NVA conscripts coming toward him before he saw them. The first platoon was positioned in front of Garcia, hampering his men's ability to return fire. However, Sergeant Murry thought quickly and was able to reposition his two machine gunners, Jose Garcia and Bob Pointer, on the left flank where a gap existed between B Company of the Black Lions and A Company of the Rangers. When Jose opened up, he was answered with an enormous volume of return fire. I say again that the lack of prepping around the clearing made it much easier for the enemy to maneuver because there were no downed trees and branches that good prepping would have created to obstruct their advance. The enemy was afforded much easier access to predetermined points around the perimeter. Murry lost most of his squad, but he, Jose, and Bob, along with the grunts in first platoon, repelled the vicious main attack on the north side. Black pajama sappers, who were skilled at probing for holes, rose from their prone shelters when the firing subsided. They then started herding those conscripts still standing and those reserves still pouring in around the flanks. Machine gunners Jose Garcia and Bob Pointer had miraculously halted a breach in the perimeter, which could have otherwise overrun Lazzell and his headquarters people. Now, more and more arriving conscripts poured in and were led around Murry's flanks to probe for softer spots in the perimeter. As usual, most of the Americans shot over their enemy's heads, but not so with Captain Ulm's B Company. Captain Ulm's Company of veterans held down the east side of the perimeter, and they did not shoot high, nor did they waste ammo. Charging conscripts were riddled with bullets so efficiently that any survivors didn't take long to decide to probe elsewhere. Triet's conscripts had a much easier time on the south side. American return fire was much lighter there because only thirty Americans were covering an expanse of the perimeter, which an entire company should have covered. I mentioned this fact earlier. Lazzell should have redirected Hearne's A Company of the Black Lions to cover that side of the perimeter as soon as they entered the clearing. Instead, he allowed them to continue marching single file toward the north end of the open clearing. Now, the Americans on the south side were out in the open and facing an enemy who outnumbered them at least ten to one. The NVA advanced almost nonchalantly into that south end of the clearing, murdering the wounded and taking souvenirs as they went along their way, unaware that on other sides of the perimeter, their comrades were being shot to pieces. This difference in attitudes across the battlefield is evidence that firefights within the same battle can have some very different and bizarre aspects to them.

      Meanwhile, back at Lai Khe, during the attack on LZ X-Ray, my squad was finishing up a nice hot lunch and returning to our perimeter bunkers for a refreshing afternoon nap. I had already positioned my nap time spot behind some sandbags, so a sniper could not zero in on me. Milliron was still stateside, and Bowman was also away on R&R. The ever-faithful Walker was there, as always. Unfortunately, my nap time plans were soon interrupted when Bartee returned from a briefing at the command center. Moments after returning, he gave us orders to saddle up, and before long, another unit showed up to relieve us of perimeter guard duty. We followed Bartee down the dirt road, which led to the mess hall tent, where we had just been served lunch. Other groups of men in my Battalion were already congregating around a line of "deuce and a half" trucks.

     Some had already started climbing into the back of empty trucks. It wasn't long before the trucks were loaded with grunts. They then pulled away, heading through a grove of rubber trees and toward the airstrip. While riding to the airstrip, Bartee explained that the Rangers (1/16th) were under heavy attack and needed our help. When we arrived at the airstrip, a line of helicopters was already waiting for us to load up. We were down to seven men in my squad and low on recruits in the unit as a whole, but that never stopped us in the past from doing our duty. Two companies of my Battalion (my B Company and Mac McLaughlin's C Company) jumped off trucks and filed down the right side of that line of Huey helicopters. The general feeling was that we had the best "ole man" in the entire division, and we could handle anything the enemy would throw at us, as long as some ignorant lieutenant didn't get in our way. That was the general feeling. However, I would soon discover that my feelings were starting to dance to a very different tune on this particular day. The chopper's engines were running. Their rotor blades were turning slowly. It was "hurry up" and "wait", and "wait some more". We knew the drill and would only board a chopper when told to do so. While waiting, some men took this opportunity to check their gear nervously. Some left our lines to walk over to several stacked crates of ammo, hand grenades, and C-rations. Most of us stocked up on such stuff long before we thought we might need it, so we just sat in the red airstrip dirt, leaned back on our ruck sacks, and waited. Standing a very short distance away was the tall, lanky Mac McLaughlin. I didn't recognize him as being the same new guy whom I had been envious of while he was digging next to me several months before. That day was a thousand years removed from the thoughts in my mind on this day. 

      Then it happened. I watched the door gunner in the helicopter directly in front of me jump out and walk toward the rear of his chopper like he had probably done hundreds of times before. This time, he walked directly into the whirling blade on the tail of the helicopter. He was killed instantly. Within a few seconds, medics responded and retrieved his limp body. When it happened, those of us waiting to board choppers did not flinch. The truth is, most of us were too familiar with sudden death to be shocked at what we witnessed. However, several other veterans whom I interviewed years later still remember. Mac McLaughlin is one of those guys. It's probably a good thing that I did not recognize Mac standing so close beside me, sporting his sergeant stripes, while my sleeves were now bare.

      In the past, I had waited a lot, but this time it was different. The longer we waited to board our chopper, the more time I had to think. The more time I had to think, the stranger this certain feeling became. There was no logical reason for the emotions I was experiencing. We were probably going to be flying straight into a living nightmare. Maybe part of the reason for this strange feeling was having seen that door gunner get killed in such a senseless way. No matter what triggered it, I would never have expected to be feeling the way I did. I was euphoric. That euphoric feeling was further buoyed up by the sound of a recent rock song by "The Byrds". That song was playing over and over in my head. The name of that song was "Hey Mr. Tambourine Man".

     Had I finally lost my mind? I was feeling a tidal wave of upbeat emotional energy. How could I be experiencing that at a time like this? Instead, I should have been feeling at least some anxiety over the very real prospect of dying. We knew for sure that we were flying into a hot LZ. I knew for sure that I was carrying a worn-out M-16, which couldn't hit the side of a barn at fifty paces. However, my mind was having none of that. Instead, it was embracing a feeling that was new to me. I can only explain that off-the-wall sensation in the following way. You see, there was a much greater fear than combat, which had been taking over, little by little, since I joined my unit and even before A.I.T. I had no outlet to numb this growing fear. I never drank. I never smoked, and I never complained about anything to Sergeant Bartee, or anyone else, for that matter. I just tucked things down, inside, and went along to get along. I was convinced that I was powerless to change anything anyway, so why try? From those first days, shortly after basic training and starting during the A.I.T. training, I learned that excelling didn't buy much respect. It seemed to do just the opposite in my case. After finishing A.I.T., I was not promoted to P.F.C., unlike my peers. Why was that? Was it because my sergeants had to stay up all night looking for me during escape and evasion training? Maybe. Or was it because I had refused to buckle under when given the third degree about not signing up for Officer Candidate School? Maybe. I never really figured out the reason.

     However, I assumed that it was one or the other. It could not have been due to poor performance, as I graduated from A.I.T. in the top ten. One sergeant told me that I would have graduated first in my class if I had only run the mile instead of walking it. There was a reason not to run that mile. As the smallest kid in my junior high class, I often had to run from neighborhood bullies. By the time I turned eighteen, I had worked out enough to face off with every single one of those bullies. I told myself afterward that I would never run again unless I were running of my own free will.

     The most recent occurrence, fueling my passive-aggressive feelings, was that Article 15. It didn't bother me much at first. Yet, afterward, in the days since, I could feel a kind of slow smoldering deep inside, with the misdirected object of that growing anger being Captain Brown. Though he was an actor in a minor incident, he was also a straw that broke the camel's back. My perfectionist mind was now causing me to close off more than ever. The disdain that I felt for most of the current leadership of my unit and the military in general was overwhelming. The damage that anger was causing to my sanity seemed, however, almost sweet to the taste. I knew my day would come. I would get even. In the meantime, one thing I knew for sure. I knew that if I wanted to survive my superiors, I needed to be careful. Interestingly, that fear I felt was much more potent than the fear I had for the Viet Cong hiding in the jungle. My fear was an overwhelming fear of "good ole Uncle Sam. That child molester had been allowed to expose me in my last year as a teenager to an X-rated environment. At the same time, he was telling me that I was too young to vote. Now, however, what could I do against such a powerful enemy? Besides, I loved my country, but I hated the people running it very much.

     Despite this "high noon" mentality developing within me, I was feeling better than good. Go figure. Even before I was forced to enter the Army, I had never developed the social skills to interact successfully with those who had the rule over me. The fear of what they could do to me was much too frightening. It had been this way since I turned thirteen. That was also the year I turned my back on God. Yes, cowering down and withdrawing into myself was the only way I had of dealing with this unwarranted fear of my parents, teachers, employers, and now the Army. A disengaged approach to every aspect of life had become my norm.

     As I sat in that dirt waiting to go into combat, it seemed that nothing mattered. I had no life back in the States, and I certainly didn't have one here. At this moment, I felt that I had lost what little control I had over anything. That may be why this other feeling of euphoria was showing up. Perhaps it was my mind's way of tripping a circuit breaker to avoid other, more horrible ways of venting. I don't know. However, this "out of nowhere" good feeling just kept getting stronger. Of course, there was always an adrenaline rush that came with flying into a hot LZ, but this was more than that. Perhaps, in my mind, I was finally finding that same "devil may care" happy place, as did Randle McMurphy in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest".       

     We finally boarded our chopper, and it immediately lifted us off the ground. The sky was a pale blue, and the landscape below was dotted with patches of rubber trees around Lai Khe. Soon, rectangular outlines of rice patties became visible. They hugged muddy brown riverbanks, which snaked through the countryside. An emerald, green jungle soon appeared as we flew further northeast toward the beleaguered Murry and his Rangers, and David Hearne and his Black Lions. It was only a fifteen-minute ride, but it was the most exhilarating experience I have ever had in a helicopter. Other lines of Hueys were all around us in the air.

     The combined beating of their main rotors made a noise that gave rhythm to the euphoric feeling inside me. No Vietnam vet will ever forget the distinctive sound made by a Huey's main rotor. That sound will always send a shiver up our spines. On this particular ride, however, their rhythmic beats were joined by another strangely euphoric sound, played only in my head. It was that song "Hey Mr. Tambourine Man" by the Byrds. I had first heard that song while listening to the Saigon radio station on my small radio, which I carried in my rucksack. Now, it was repeating itself again and again in my head. As I look back more than fifty years later, I can see myself sitting with legs dangling out the door of that Huey. As my legs dangled from that chopper, I was also sure of something else that was happening on this day, June 17, 1967. I was absolutely sure that I was well on my way to losing my "ever-loving” mind.

       As we neared the LZ, I snapped back to reality. For some reason, I had a little superstitious "bent", which said it was always better to be the first to hit the ground, running. That meant that I always tried to sit as close to the door gunner as possible. Nearing the LZ, I could see a few moving specks several miles from us, diving toward the ground like so many angry birds. The specks grew larger as our formation of faded olive green Hueys drew closer. Those specks soon assumed the shape of phantom jets. They had been coming and going from the battle for some time now. They were working the area over with napalm, Gatling guns, and antipersonnel bombs. I will never forget the brilliance of the giant orange fireballs of napalm contrasted against the green of the jungle and the blue of the sky. However, these fires were dropped too far away from the perimeter to have much effect.

     It had been a long and terrifying afternoon for forward observer Hearne and an even more terrifying one for Murry, and his machine gunners, Garcia, and Pointer. It had been just as unnerving for many others, as well. Men had been killed all around Murry, Garcia, and Pointer since they experienced the brunt of the attack. Miraculously, they survived. However, when the shooting was over, only six men in Murry's platoon were fit for duty. Lazzell had gone airborne in his bubble helicopter early on. He wanted to place himself in a position to coordinate artillery and airstrikes better, but, like everything else this guy did, that was a mistake. The background noise from his helicopter and the battle itself, hidden from view by the triple canopy jungle, prevented him from effectively doing what he was trying to do. When Lazzell went airborne, he became just another spectator who could do little to affect the battle going on below him. Come to think of it, that may have been a good thing. 

    My ride would have become a death trap if we had started receiving incoming fire as we landed. Fortunately, the main attacks had already ended when we arrived. When we reached the LZ, choppers in front of our own banked toward the clearing and swooped low over the trees to lessen the chance of taking a hit. Centrifugal force was the only thing holding me to the floor of my ship, as our bird banked to follow the one in front of it. We made our final approach, and our pilot was good. He brought the Huey to within six feet of the ground. In less than four seconds, everyone in my squad was running for the wood line. Many years later, Dick told me that he was already on the ground directing traffic when my B Company got there, which did not surprise me. I immediately dropped my ninety-pound rucksack as soon as I exited the aircraft. As I ran, I could see, to my left, in my peripheral vision, soldiers dragging black body bags, filled with the limp bodies of young Americans. Those bags were being added to a line of others near the northwest side of the clearing. That line was already twenty to thirty bags long. Inside the tree line, I came face-to-face with only one defender from the ambushed Rangers (1/16th). He had superficial cuts on many parts of his body from flying shrapnel. Immediately, he warned me that he had been receiving sniper fire from one of the big jungle trees about twenty meters to our front. About thirty seconds later, mortar rounds started falling to our right side. One landed no more than ten yards away. The other soldier and I hit the ground together and crawled behind a large termite hill, which did not offer much protection against flying shrapnel, but it was better than nothing. Cries for medics soon came from our right side. Michael Morrow, an RTO in the Black Lions Battalion, was killed by one of these mortar rounds. It was a very deadly mortar attack for my platoon, although I would not learn just how deadly until over fifty years later. This mortar attack wiped out an entire squad in my platoon. Captain Brown's RTO, Fred Walters, told me years later that Porky Morton, Bianchi, Schotz, Ruiz, and Lemon were among those badly wounded in that squad. They were so grievously hurt that they never returned to the unit.

     Triet had no intention of keeping the fight going after my Dogface Battalion arrived, nor could he have done so if he had tried. His supply of weaponized teenage conscripts had been depleted and would need to be replenished. That was okay, because his tactical objective to hit the bungling Lazzell fast and hard had been achieved. Now, it was time to withdraw and wait for a resupply of more young rice farmer conscripts. They were already being herded down other ox cart trails, from other hidden base camps nearby. The last mortar attack was only to keep us pinned down long enough to make good his withdrawal. Minutes after that, shelling stopped, and orders came down for my unit to start digging in. The other soldier from the Rangers Battalion (1/16th) soon left me and joined up with what was left of his A Company. Lazzell's battered A Company was air lifted to Chi Linh airstrip, but not the "Ole War Horse", Captain Ulm, and the men in B Company. They stayed. Forward observer, David Hearne, also stayed and slept across the clearing from me that night. He didn't start unwinding, though, until he had made sure that his guns, located five miles away, had properly registered locations in his assigned sector. He also ensured that a sufficient number of flare canisters were readily available to light up the perimeter in case of an attack in the middle of the night. Although David didn't realize it, at the time, he was in the good hands of the wiliest fox in the woods, Dick Cavazos. Lazzell choppered out to start processing his paperwork so he could be sent home. I don't think he addressed his men to say goodbye. Saying goodbye is something that every commander should strive to do unless they are leaving in a body bag.

      There were 189 American casualties and 39 killed in this battle. Some were so severely wounded that they were sent to Japan, and others on to the states, never to return to their units. I am sure that the wounded men in my platoon's third squad lived shortened lives due to their wounds, as do most wounded soldiers in any war.

     Within a short time, Chinooks appeared at the center of the clearing. They brought tons of supplies and cold cans of Coke, buried in dripping chunks of ice, swinging in the webbing underneath their bellies. I left my two nameless foxhole buddies, who were filling in for Milliron and Bowman, and made my way back to where I had dropped off my rucksack. As I recovered it, Chinooks were now dropping off Marston matting, Maddoxs, and sandbags. No one had to order us "ole timers" in my unit to help carry these vital materials back to our positions. We just paired up and did it. From above, looking down, a Chinook crew member could have easily mistaken us for a colony of worker ants, in human form. In less than two hours, our DePuy bunkers were nearly complete. Listening posts were also established, and night ambush patrols were assembled to leave the perimeter, for a dot on a map. I am now sure that Dick himself would have scrutinized those ambush locations. Since my position was concealed inside the wood line, I never realized that the First Infantry Division commander, Major General Hay, had flown in and stayed long enough to pin a silver star on the chest of Private First Class Ben Walker, of B Company, the Black Lions (2/28th) Infantry Battalion. I don't know why Garcia and Pointer didn't get one. Something else happened, too, or perhaps I should say, "stopped happening." When I first arrived, my olfactory nerves were bombarded with the sickening sweet smell of burning napalm. The scent had been so intense that it soon deadened those same nerves and then went away altogether. That night, between my times on guard, I slept like a baby, beside our bunker, on my newly acquired air mattress. I always covered myself with my plastic poncho to shield myself from falling raindrops, but not from getting wet. Getting wet was inevitable, as was getting eaten alive by giant mosquitoes. To keep them at bay, I needed to apply liquid mosquito repellent skillfully. Too much, and it would burn holes in one's skin. Okay, maybe I didn't sleep like a baby, after all. However, listening to music over my small radio earpieces while awake and during guard duty helped me relax. Tensions finally eased for everyone, and the night passed without an incident. Later, I learned that most of our ambush patrols heard a lot of noise throughout the night. More likely, it was enemy patrols searching for weapons and bodies that had been left behind during the battle.

     The next morning, it was business as usual for us. Those weird feelings that I had experienced the day before had by now retreated into the recesses of my subconscious mind, where they belonged. My narrow escape from that mortar barrage and the hard work of digging in had worked their magic in helping me cope. However, it should be noted that magic is only an illusion. It is never what it seems. After our continental breakfast and halfway through my half-filled canteen cup of coffee, Bartee appeared from his morning briefing and immediately delivered the word that our squad would be running a patrol this morning. He and I began reviewing the route drawn on his map, while his RTO hung close and listened. As we continued to review and memorize the azimuths for each checkpoint, the other men in my squad automatically started rounding up what they needed for the patrol. They began sorting out what would be carried on the patrol and what would be left behind, as dead weight. Bartee had an experienced crew here, so he did not inspect each grunt. He was not a henpecker, and we liked him for that. The other four guys, including Walker, as usual, didn't look on, while Bartee and I studied the map. They couldn't have cared less because it wasn't their job to navigate the route. So, why should they listen to us discuss the route when they could be enjoying the last few bites of Tex's home-made donuts and maybe a good smoke? I dread thinking about how they would have gotten home if something had happened to Bartee or me, but then, I was the eternal over-thinker.

       A mild drizzle began to fall as we left the perimeter. We followed our assigned azimuth to the first checkpoint. We were walking through a virgin jungle. The drizzling rain was protection against our patrol being detected by the black pajama watchers staked out around the clearing. It also muffled the noise we made. Rain also prevented the enemy from smelling us. Not far into the jungle, I walked past a few dead enemy bodies left lying around from yesterday's battle, and I also crossed an ox cart trail. It had been drilled into us, by Dick, not to walk on those trails, and I thought that I understood the entire reason for that. However, I only understood part of it. You see, enemy ambushes on trails were not the only thing to fear. Booby traps were also to be feared, and they were almost always placed on trails, around camps, and in tunnels. However, they were never constructed in the vast expanses of undisturbed jungle where no one was likely to tread. I walked point on many patrols while serving in Vietnam, and I never walked a single trail, except for that day at "Thrust". I also never ran across a single booby trap. Not walking trails was the reason for that.

     I was also raised by a father who taught me a little about navigating the woods. His lessons made a significant contribution to my survival. My father put no emphasis whatsoever on encouraging me to become involved in sports, unlike other fathers. It's also true that involvement in these school activities helped give my classmates a head start over me in the civilized world. However, the world I was in now was not civilized. I wouldn't have survived in this uncivilized world to return to that other world if not for the alternative lessons I learned from my father. My father had been the one to teach me how to navigate the woods at night with a compass, not the Army. Those lessons learned early meant that I had no problem holding the compass, shooting a bearing, and continually counting paces, with no help from anyone else. It would have been nice if Milliron and Bowman could have been there, but I didn't need them to do my job. The distance to the first checkpoint was around 800 meters. The second checkpoint was almost twice that. Unlike our other security patrols, this was not a short security patrol. We were being used more like a recon patrol, and this patrol was by far the longest squad patrol that I had ever run. There is one more thing worth mentioning. It was hugely essential to the survival of any patrol. That something was Sergeant Bartee, the squad leader. Lately, I have been able to count on Sergeant Bartee more than I did when he first arrived to take over the squad. He trusted me to do my thing, and I could trust him to do his. Today, without Milliron and Bowman's help, it was more important than ever for that to happen.

     Looking back now, after analyzing various "after-action reports," it was apparent that there were numerous signs indicating a heavy enemy presence still in this area of operation. The enemy unit that attacked Lazzell at LZ X-Ray was also the same unit that attacked Alexander Haig near the Cambodian border on April 1. That was only two and a half months ago. Now, this same unit had just mounted a full-strength attack over sixty miles closer to Saigon. Something wasn't adding up. That was a big clue that decimated units like the 271st were not retreating over the Cambodian border every time they got shot up, as we naïve Americans believed. Given time constraints, I realize now that this was not plausible. How could Thanh have Triet do that, and yet, show up again, so soon, sixty miles further south? It seems to me now that our American politicians were very susceptible to the very smooth Svengali of the communists. Many very smooth but false tactical narratives about our enemy were fed to our American news media and then passed on to influence many of our politicians. Those viewpoints not only seemed to give too much unrealistic credit to the enemy's fighting ability, but also way too much virtue to the leaders of their side of the conflict. In this case, there would not have been enough time for Thanh to have reconstituted the 271st, transforming raw recruits into what is sometimes described as the "fabled" and "storied" veteran jungle warriors. Here is a much more plausible picture of what was happening.

     The NVA who filled the communist ranks were "ravaged conscripts", some as young as 12 years old, who would be very fortunate indeed to survive the criminal war tactics imposed upon them by their communist masters. After the battle of Ap Gu, the surviving conscripts of the 271st kept moving south. Their ranks were replenished on the march. They took temporary breaks to resupply and rest along the way, in the numerous base camps, scattered from Cambodia to the outskirts of Saigon. These NVA forces were not "long-time" veterans, as we supposed, but instead, were "doped-up" brown and green uniformed teenage conscripts, whose jungle fighting skills were limited to a brief ten-minute lesson on how to fire an AK-47 or a handheld rocket launcher. They were also given a short lesson on how to respond to a whistle or a bugle, so their hard-core communist cadre could more easily herd them into their suicidal death charge positions. I guess that anyone refusing would have been immediately shot in the head.

     On this day, as on many other days, my squad patrol was operating very near enemy forces of all sizes. So, with this heavy enemy presence, why were our unit's small patrols not making more contact with the enemy? Here is one logical explanation for that. As I have said repeatedly, Dick ensured that our patrols stayed off the trails. However, because speed was essential to the enemy, they mostly stayed on the trails. They didn't have helicopters or other mechanized forms of transportation. Thus, their extensive network of trails enabled the enemy to move around more quickly. It was also the way they were able to perform a myriad of other time-sensitive and murderous missions. Crawling through thick jungle vegetation to ambush a small American patrol was not one of them. They usually had "bigger fish to fry" than going on the prowl looking for a small patrol like ours in the thick jungle.

      After we had gone almost due west for three or four hundred meters, it's possible that we heard the blades of a Huey, as it brought General Hay back to our location for a second time. It is also possible that we heard Westmoreland and the news crews when they landed at LZ X-Ray. However, we would not have realized that it was Westmoreland. That information would not have been announced over our small patrol radio for obvious reasons. Even if we had known, that would not have mattered either. A small patrol like ours was a world unto itself. It would be over fifty years later before I learned from Hearne that the brass had paid a visit to LZ X-Ray. Westmoreland stayed quite a while. Medals were handed out. Except for the Medal of Honor, choosing who should get a medal has always been a very subjective undertaking. Medic Mike Stout received a silver star, while machine gunners Garcia and Pointer were overlooked. Yet, they had prevented the entire northeastern section of the line from collapsing.

      Not long into Westmoreland's visit, a new guy in B Company 2/28th named David Aldridge was making his very first security sweep, just outside the perimeter, along with Staff Sergeant Jiminez, and the team's RTO, Buck Sergeant Glover. Point man Guy Clinger was leading the patrol. New guy, Aldridge, had been assigned to Guy Clinger's position soon after he arrived the previous afternoon. When he arrived, his brand-new jungle fatigues were already bloody, from riding to X-Ray on a blood-soaked Chinook. It had been evacuating the wounded. Before loading aboard, at Lai Khe, Aldridge had watched in horror as many of the Chinook's walking wounded had helped others stumble down the off-ramp. When Aldridge arrived at Landing Zone (LZ) X-Ray to join his unit for the first time, my unit was already there. He was assigned to Guy Clinger's squad. He arrived too late to take part in the big battle, so he and Clinger immediately started digging in and talking nonstop. With only their entrenching tools, they dug their DePuy bunker, which took almost the entire night to complete.

     Now, as the tired Aldridge began his first full day in the field, I am sure he had no idea that he was about to earn his Combat Infantry Badge so soon. Here is how that happened. Since Westmoreland was nearby and walking the perimeter, someone sent Aldridge and members of his squad to investigate one of those treacherous ox cart trails. That's when trouble found him. His fire team had walked only a little way down the trail when they surprised some sappers assigned by Triet to keep an eye on the American forces. When the firefight ended, David Aldridge had earned his C.I.B. and lost his newfound buddy, Guy Clinger. This event occurred entirely within Aldridge's first 24 hours in the field, while my squad was on patrol. I thank God that we had a commander who unilaterally took the initiative to enforce an order for us to stay off trails. Again, we crossed trails, walked beside them, and ambushed them, but we never walked on them. I was now leading my squad alongside a well-traveled ox cart trail, which skirted the bamboo ticket to my left. The 25 meters of jungle foliage between us and the trail, however, concealed our movement, and the wet jungle deadened the sounds we made. No one traveling that trail would have known that we were there. Another reason why we went undetected was that we slithered through the jungle instead of chopping our way through it.

       I am sure my patrol was still close enough to hear the sounds of Aldridge's first firefight at the NDP. However, random shooting was common. If we heard shooting coming from that firefight, we would not necessarily have associated it with being an actual firefight. It could have been practice-firing. Furthermore, while on patrol, for noise-abatement reasons, no news of a small firefight would have been transmitted to our ears by radio. Generally speaking, “command“ rarely contacted us, unless we called them first. So, I continued to lead my little band further and further into the virgin jungle, skirting the thicker stuff to my front, by going left this time and right the next time. This technique effectively canceled out navigation errors. Staff Sergeant Bartee walked along silently about 10 meters behind me.

     About halfway to the first checkpoint, somewhere deep in the jungle to my front, I heard what I now believe was the shrill shriek of a blue pitta. It could be heard above a chorus of other jungle birds. There were also bands of gray langur monkeys hiding high in the treetops, being completely quiet, as we passed by. I didn't spend a lot of time looking up. I knew that most threats would come from stumbling upon a patrol or a base camp, rather than from tree snipers looking to ambush a small patrol like ours. So, that's where I trained my gaze. We were passing through rather thick secondary undergrowth. It would have been tough for a tree sniper to look down and see me as we passed by. Besides, why would snipers try to ambush us in the vast expanse of empty jungle, given the low probability of us traveling that way in the first place? The answer to that question is, "They wouldn't". Still, I used my peripheral vision to check for movement around me continually, and at the same time, kept my gaze fixed on the front. There were always possible spots on the ground where threats could be looming. When I walked point, I had to switch my focus from spot to spot, always to my front. I just did what I had done in the George Washington National Forest of Virginia so many times before. Hour after boring hour, I would give my full attention to spotting "out of place" details or movements. I was hunting. I had also recently picked up a little trick from Walker, which helped a lot. Like him, I started draping a green towel around my neck to periodically wipe the sweat and rain from my eyes so I could see more clearly.

     I quietly announced our arrival at the first checkpoint. With little ado, Bartee nodded. I then shot a new compass bearing. It was on an azimuth, which would take us almost due north. I don't remember whether Bartee allowed the men to pause for a smoke. More than likely, he did. The rain had now stopped completely, as we started the second leg of our journey. It would be almost a mile to our next checkpoint. It was an easy walk. The route took us up a gentle incline, where the undergrowth thinned slightly. The thinner undergrowth allowed me to travel in a much straighter line toward our second checkpoint. I could sight in my compass on objects that were much farther away. This longer distance saved time, since I did not have to stop and reshoot bearings as often. The sky cleared, and the sun above us was brilliant. Shards of almost liquid sunlight pierced the canopies of giant jungle trees. These brilliant columns of light streaming from above to the jungle flooring below created the sensation that I had just entered the interior of some grand cathedral. If not for the present circumstances, I am sure that this little spot of earth could have fooled even an angel of God into thinking that he was walking through the Garden of Eden. Thirty meters to my front, a mongoose hopped from spot to spot. While watching the mongoose, the same peaceful feeling came over me that I had experienced months ago, as I sat along the riverbank. I know now that it was the peace associated with the rising of the Holy Spirit in my soul. He knew something that we didn't know. He knew if we were left to our own devices, we wouldn't live long enough to reach our second checkpoint. And He had known this since before the beginning of time. That's one reason he had already ensured that my squad now had the right squad leader and the right battalion commander for what was going to happen next.

      On and on we went. The men following behind me were being unusually quiet in their movements on this patrol. They weren't dumb. They had arrived on the same chopper as me. They, too, had seen all the black body bags of our boys who had died in that battle the day before. They, too, had walked by the same enemy corpses strewn about in the jungle around us, as we went about our business of preparing and improving our DePuy bunkers. Those sights had already set a somber mood for our patrol.

     Furthermore, most of my squad members had been on enough security patrols to realize that we were going much further this time than usual. That meant we would be much further away if we needed help. The further we went, the more I could sense their growing fear. I could also feel that same fear starting to overshadow the brief peace I had allowed myself to experience, as I momentarily soaked in the majesty and prehistoric grandeur of the jungle around me. Somewhere to our front, I could hear the cry of another blue pitta. Within seconds after hearing his shriek, the voice spoke. I listened to the voice. It was not an audible voice. It had a much more powerful effect on me than if it had been an audible voice. This voice momentarily overrode everything that my five senses were telling me. It was the voice of the Holy Spirit, and He said, "If you go any further, then you are going to die".

     That message made me freeze in my tracks. I then slowly turned and stood, staring at Bartee, which broke the one cardinal rule that I had always obeyed. That rule was never to take my gaze off the jungle before me. Bartee was fifteen paces behind me. He knew I had something important to say, so he kept walking toward me until he was within whispering distance. His radio man followed close behind. The rest of the squad remained motionless where they were before he started walking toward me. As he closed the gap between us, he never took his eyes off mine, and not a word did he utter. When he stopped, his face was just five feet from mine. He just stood there as quietly as if he were a churchgoer waiting for the prayers to start. In that instant, as I stared into his handsome twenty-six-year-old countenance, his features became so ingrained in my mind that I can still see them today, as clearly as I did then. He was five feet nine with sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. I can also see the droplets of sweat "beading up" on his face and dripping off his nose and chin. He had a very compliant expression, which said that he was willing to receive whatever I was about to say, with the same respect due the voice of God. At this instant, with all his faults, our squad could have asked for no better leader than Sergeant Bartee.

     "They are just in front of us", I whispered in a very matter-of-fact tone. When this communication was given, Bartee's trusting demeanor never changed. There was not a hint of doubt on his face. He had just heard the gospel truth, and he knew it was true. However, I had no natural proof to confirm what I had just said. Without that proof, no other squad leader in the entire First Division would have taken my word alone for it. Over the last few months, however, Bartee had developed the rare ability to trust me and the rest of his men, much more than before. You see, trust breeds trust just as suspicion breeds suspicion. By now, Dick had laid a solid foundation for that trust to grow throughout the ranks. However, Bartee trusted me more than I trusted myself. If he had questioned my judgment this time, as he had done when he had first become our squad leader, there would have been no pushback from me. I would have been the first to agree with any second-guessing from him. The truth is, I had no proof that anything was out there. Yet, Bartee ran with my original, unfiltered announcement. That announcement had come straight from my heart, and Bartee acted on it before I had time to second-guess myself. That was a fantastic milestone in our working relationship. Looking back now, I realize that God had handpicked the one in a million lifer sergeant who would take me at my word. He had complete faith in me. However, the final decision on whether or not to continue our patrol did not rest with him.

      "I'll call 'command' and see what they want us to do", Bartee whispered. Fortunately, Dick himself was made privy to the call. I say "fortunately" because there were several command levels between a security patrol and the battalion commander. In most cases, any of those levels could have unilaterally made the decision ordering us to proceed or to hold up. Captain Brown was the commander of my B Company, and the decision on whether we were to continue following our route could have easily fallen to him. If so, would Captain Brown have ordered us to hold up and return the way we had come? I don't think so. The only evidence we had was just that voice in my head, and Captain Brown had already demonstrated that my word meant nothing to him. Nor did my well-being. 

     We would have to wait a while to discover whether or not anything was lurking in front of our patrol. Bartee seemed as shocked as the rest of us that Dick had taken our word for it without presenting him with any evidence. No doubt, God knew before the worlds were framed that Dick would be taking that call. When that call was made, I believe that Bartee and Dick may have been the only two people in my entire division who would have trusted my word, and my word alone. I'm not certain, but here is what I do know. Bartee called our command post and said his point man believed that an enemy force was located directly in front of us. Dick did not hesitate to tell us to turn around and backtrack the way we came. He also told Bartee to mark our present location on the map. He finished his transmission with the following statement. "America makes plenty of bombs. We will bomb this spot tonight and see if there is anything out there to the front of your patrol. I am not going to take a chance of getting any of you men hurt". We then backtracked exactly as Dick had ordered us to do. When our patrol reached our base camp, I cannot describe how relieved everyone felt. There had been no shoot-out between us and this obviously overwhelming enemy force. It was uncanny to think that we felt so much relief for seemingly no reason. Even after surviving the last mortar attack, I had not felt such relief.

     It was now mid-afternoon, and we were already looking forward to settling into our perimeter positions for the night. There would be no ambush patrol for us on this night. I learned nothing about the arrival earlier in the day of our high-powered visitors, or that a man had been killed on a security patrol just outside the perimeter. After settling into my position on the perimeter, my primary concern was to keep my ears tuned to hear the helicopter, which would bring one of Tiny's home-cooked meals to us. I did, on occasion, write letters to my family. So, I may have settled down to write a letter. I can't remember. One thing, for sure, I felt little concern about being right or wrong, about the location of that enemy base camp. I was just happy to be alive. After all, I had no professional reputation to uphold. The Army had just recently reinforced that feeling when I was demoted. It's too bad, though, because I don't believe that I was the only youngster who got crossways in the military as I did. With the proper leadership, shy, withdrawn guys like me could have been turned into so much more of an asset than we were allowed to become. Sadly, we now had that one commander in a thousand who knew how to do that, but one commander in a thousand was not going to fix "stupid".

     That night, while sitting in base camp, sharing a canteen cup of my concocted brew of hot chocolate, the ground began to shake slightly. Along with that shaking came a low rumbling sound. It was the kind of sound made when 750-pound bombs tore swimming pool-sized holes in the ground. The shaking of the earth around us lasted no more than five minutes. I finished my cup of hot chocolate. Tomorrow, my entire B Company would return to the spot we marked on that map. We would see if indeed there had been an enemy presence located where I had said it was. Tonight, I just went about squad business as usual. Before settling down for the night, I made sure that I could find each claymore detonator in the dark in case we were attacked in the middle of the night. Six extra hand grenades were always stashed in my ruck sack, and my rocket launcher was always laid out near the back door of our bunker for anyone to use in a pinch. Walker was next door, sleeping with the deadliest thump gun in the Battalion. Even with Milliron and Bowman gone, I had little concern about how well I would sleep tonight. I'll say again that I slept like a baby, but a baby who was awakened every four hours to pull guard.

     The next morning, on June 19, my entire company moved out early to survey the results of the bombing. We took a more direct approach than my squad had taken the day before. I believe my platoon was in the lead, but my squad was not the point squad. It was easy to tell when we had arrived at the bomb site. The majestic rain forest, which had looked like the Garden of Eden yesterday, was now devastated. The bombs had left deep craters in the ground. Giant trees, hundreds of years old, had been uprooted, making it challenging to navigate through the tangled mess. The first thing that alerted me to the fact that human life had been destroyed was the uniquely sickening smell of dead human flesh. I had smelled this odor too many times now. It was impossible to locate the exact spot where we had been standing when I heard the warning voice of the Holy Spirit, because the bombing had changed the appearance of the area so much. What wasn't hard to determine, however, was the destruction of a huge enemy base camp, which had been located directly in the path of our security patrol. Large, disheveled pieces of bamboo, used as supports for overhead covering, were scattered everywhere. Most of the 53 ten-man earthen bunkers and underground connecting tunnels were caved in. I am sure many enemy conscripts had been buried beneath the rubble.

     Some probably died a slow agonizing death from suffocation. It was impossible to get an accurate body count. Some relatively intact bodies had been flung in all directions, landing in grotesque poses. No doubt, many of these poor souls had been resting in a relatively peaceful state before being translated from one dehumanizing situation here on earth into an infinitely worse one. The enemy had no prior knowledge that an air strike would target them. I believe almost every person in that camp was killed. At the time, however, that sobering fact gave me nothing but a feeling of relief. Why? Because these enemy soldiers could no longer be used to hurt us. The anguish came later, as I realized, not only had they lost their natural lives, but many had also lost something of much greater value. Most had lost Jesus Christ, who is the key to eternal life. Yet, I was not responsible for their eternal deaths. Nor was Dick responsible. Nor was President Johnson responsible. Nor was God responsible. All responsibility for their eternal deaths rested squarely on their shoulders. Why? Because the Holy Spirit beckons all to confess Jesus Christ as Lord. We either heed that voice and confess Him as Lord, or reject Him as Lord. It's just that simple. Our eternal life or death rests squarely on the shoulders of each of us. (Rom. 1:19-21) (Titus 2:11) A good case can also be made, placing all responsibility for their natural deaths on their communist masters, who were using them as pawns to enslave millions of their fellow citizens.

     There was little doubt that these were the NVA conscripts who had participated in the ambush of the 1/16th and the 2/28th on June 17 at the battle of Xom Bo II.

     In a phone conversation with retired General Richard Cavazos in 2005, I asked him why he had trusted my unfounded announcement of an enemy presence. He said, "I always trusted my men". I was then corrected by him when I mentioned that B-52s made the bombing run. "Wayne", he said, "Those were not B-52s. Those were Australian Canberra's. Most likely, they were from the RAAF 2nd squadron, which had been initially deployed at Phan Rang on April 19, 1967. They destroyed 47 of the 53 ten-man bunkers, which could easily house a battalion-sized force. The successful outcome, at the time, could have been the result of using Canberra's instead of B-52s. Here's why. I learned years later that many of the B-52 bombing runs inside Vietnam were compromised by spies in Saigon, who were regularly able to get their hands on the schedules for those planned bombing runs. The Canberra runs were made on the spur of the moment, which would have made it harder for spies to detect and pass on in time to warn their cohorts.