Chap 15 The Voice of God

     Now, let’s go back to my story of the battle of Xom Bo II, itself, where once again brave "to be spit upon" Americans were pitted against hopeless young North Vietnamese rice farmers, who had been systematically turned into an expendable commodity of war, by a few sociopaths.

     When the tail end of A Company 2/28th Infantry trickled into the clearing, 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, listening to Lazzell flap his "little man jaws" when in fact, he should not have been calling for a meeting, in the first place, at this time. Instead, he should have been just finishing, calling down the world, on the jungle around the clearing, prepping it with napalm, cluster bombs and all the artillery he could get his hands on. After the prepping was finished, he should then have had his first companies in the line of march to double time around each side of the clearing toward the north end, with the speed and urgency of an air assault. They should then have then started digging in. The two trailing companies of the 2/28th should have been ready to double time into position behind the 1/16th, instead of being allowed to linger far behind, in the jungle. There had been an abundance of occurrences recently to indicate that walking into LZ X-Ray could be more dangerous than an air assault. 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 obvious from reports and maps, which I have studied, 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 rest and eat lunch, which means they were allowed to fall into a much more relaxed state of mind, than should have ever been allowed to happen. Boxes of machine gun ammo were scattered around and out of easy reach of the gunners. This relaxed attitude was just the icing on the cake for Triet.

     When the attack started, Hearne was standing in a circle of leadership personnel, with no choice, but to listen to Lazzell talk about "God knows what". It was at this moment, that the first sporadic gun fire could be heard in the background. Some of those first shots were fired by Triet's tree snipers. They should have been burned up in the prepping, which never occurred. Instead, 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 that como wire, which also should have been burned up in the prepping. Triet's subordinates were now given the "go ahead", to start the formations of brown uniformed "deplorables" "double timing" down the ox cart trails toward their death. Chinook resupply helicopters were circling above and it didn't take long for Triet's snipers to realize that they made much better targets, than individual soldiers in the clearing. The Chinooks were big, and they were slow. They were slowed even more, because they had webbing dangling from under their weather-beaten bellies, crammed with all sorts of resupplies. The diversion, which these lumbering giants offered snipers, probably saved some American lives. Only one man in the 2/28th A Company 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 A Company followed suite. Sergeant Bivens' unilateral decision to break formation and move proved one thing. He knew that the most important part of his job was looking after his men. He probably knew a lot of other things, too. They were things, which should have been done before the battle started. However, those choices were not his to make. Nor, were they choices his company commander could make either. Those choices before the first shots of the battle were fired fell into one man's lap and his alone. That man was Lt. Col. Rufus Lazzell. Bivens knew that. He also knew that after the first shot was fired, it was in his lap now.  

     The enemy attack was more concentrated on the northwest corner of the perimeter, where several ox cart trails converged into the clearing, but in this chapter I am not going to go to say much more about the main battle, itself. David Hearne has already given a good account, which he took from "eyewitness" accounts of the people, who were there that day. Sergeant Murry was in the "thick of the fight" on the north end. He also gave a good account. Hearne wrote about it in a book entitled "June 17, 1967" Battle of Xom Bo II". Murry gave great details in his book which is titled "Content With My Wages A Sergeant's Story". Let me finish by saying this. Sergeant Murry's two machine gunners, in 2nd platoon were among the very first exposed to the initial thrust of the brown suited "deplorables", as they came flooding down ox cart trails toward the clearing. 1st platoon was stacked to their front, but Murry, had positioned the two machine gunners, Jose Garcia, and Bob Pointer on the left flank where a gap existed between B Company Black Loins and A Company "Rangers". Jose Garcia heard the "deplorables" stampeding down the ox cart trail, in front of his position, before he saw them. When Jose opened up, the return fire was enormous. Since the prepping of the clearing had been inadequate, the trails around the clearing were intact and allowed for easy flow of "deplorables" around the perimeter. They were led by "black pajama" sappers, who probed for holes in the woefully unprepared defenses, as they spread out in every direction around the perimeter. If they encountered heavy return fire, they used the previously dug pits as temporary shelter. As usual, most of the Americans shot over their enemy's head, but not so with Company B. Captain Ulm's Company of "veteran" were holding down the east side of the perimeter and they were definitely not shooting high. "Deplorables" started dropping like flies, as they passed through Ulm's fields of fire. The one's that made it, joined others who had already moved in on the South side of the perimeter. Here the return fire on them was much lighter, because the 30 Americans covering such a wide expanse of the perimeter just didn't have the fire power to repel such large numbers. 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 of allowing them to continue marching single file toward the north end of the open clearing. Now, the sparse coverage on the south side made it possible for the NVA to almost advance into the clearing nonchalantly, murdering the wounded, and taking souvenirs, as they advanced.

      Mean while back at Lai Khe, during the attack on LZ X-Ray, my squad was just 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 state-side and Bowman was also gone. Maybe he had taken an R & R. I can't remember. The ever-faithful Walker was there, as always. Unfortunately, those "nap time" plans were soon interrupted when Bartee returned from a briefing at command center. Moments after returning, he gave us orders to saddle up, and before long another unit showed up to relieve us. 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 to find a good seat. It wasn't long before the trucks were loaded and started pulling away, heading through a grove of rubber trees, toward the air strip. While riding to the air strip, Bartee explained that the 1/16th "Rangers" were under heavy attack and needed our help. When we arrived at the air strip, a line of helicopters were already waiting for us to load up. We were down to seven men, in my squad, and low on new recruits in the unit, as a whole, but never mind that. Two companies of my battalion, or around 200 hundred, strong, jumped off the truck and filed down the right side of a 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 was able to throw at us, as long as a ignorant lieutenant didn't get in our way. The chopper's engines were running, and rotor blades were turning slowly. Now, it was hurry up and wait, and wait, and wait. We knew the drill and would never take the initiative to board a chopper until told to do so. While waiting, some guys took this opportunity to nervously check their gear. Some left our lines to walk over to several stacked crates of ammo, hand grenades and C-rations. Most of us, stayed stocked up on such stuff as that, so we just sat in the dirt, leaned back on our ruck sacks, and waited. 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, and I must say, what a strange feeling rolled over me. It was a feeling of euphoria, which came on the wings of a song, and I would remember this strange sensation, for over fifty years.

      Had I finally lost my mind? I was actually feeling a tidal wave of emotional energy. How could I be experiencing a feeling 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" and 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 choosing to embrace a feeling which was totally new to me. I can only explain this "off the wall" feeling in the following way. You see, there was a much greater fear, than combat, which had been taking hold of my emotions, little by little, since A.I.T. Furthermore, to relieve the buildup of this pent-up emotion, I never drank, never smoked or vented about anything, to Sergeant Bartee, or anyone else, for that matter. I just tucked thinks down, inside, and went along to get along. And why shouldn't I have done this? I was convinced, that I was powerless, to change anything in the relationship between myself and the Army. Since those first days in A.I.T, I had learned that expressing my viewpoint to those, whom I thought were nonsensical people, in the first place, just wouldn't work. I had not been promoted to P.F.C. as 99% percent of the others had, and why? Was it because my sergeants had to stay up all night looking for me, during "escape and evasion" training? Or, maybe it was because I refused to buckle under, when given the third degree, about signing up for Officer Candidate School. I never really figured out if there was a connection there or not. I just assumed there was. It couldn't have been for poor performance, because I graduated A.I.T. in at least 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. Now, once again, the recent article 15 had reinforced in my mind the uselessness of trying to reconcile the relationship between myself and the many layers of leadership, which existed in the Army. Not only was that a waste of time, but my trying had usually produced nothing but punitive results. So, I just kept my mouth shut. Even before the Army entered my life, I had never developed the skills needed to plead my case before my authority figures. The terror of what they may do to me was always too great. It had been that way since I turned thirteen. That was also the year I turned my back on God. Yes, "Cowering down" and withdrawing into myself, when confronted with stupid orders from my parents, teachers, employers and now the Army, had become my norm. However, I was smart enough to realize, that my norm might not work this time. This time, I was about to face the real possibility of some stupid orders, getting me and my squad killed, which meant that I would have to suffer the consequences of disobeying them. There was just no way that I was going to follow stupid orders, issued from the stupid mouths, of stupid men, at the expense of my own life. The terror which that thought brought was the most terrifying feeling I have ever experienced. Oh sure, I had learned to handle Bartee, and we also had Cavazos, whom most of us, including me, would have followed anywhere, but I couldn't handle the platoon sergeant, or our "wet nosed" platoon leader. I certainly couldn't handle a "blundering idiot" first sergeant or the numbskull company commander. I feared them much more than I did the enemy. Of course, the feelings, which I am describing here, were brought on by extreme self-centeredness, but I didn't realize that, at this time. Dwelling in this dark place of the soul, made me feel like the most helpless human being in the entire world. Back home, weight lifting helped bring me back from this form of self loathing. Here, in the jungle, weight lifting was impossible. Perhaps, that's why this feeling of euphoria was showing up. Perhaps, it was my mind's way of tripping a circuit breaker and "wigging out" to avoid other more horrible ways of venting. I really don't know. Looking back now, its quite obvious, that I had been becoming more and more alienated. However, this "out of nowhere" good feeling just kept getting stronger. Of course, there was always a high, which came with flying into a hot LZ, but this was more than that. Perhaps I really was finally entering the foyer to that same "happy place" as Randle McMurphy in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". 

      We boarded our chopper and started lifting 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 could be seen, hugging muddy brown riverbanks, which snaked through the countryside. Then, more emerald green jungle 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 ride which I have ever experienced in a helicopter. That nonsensical feeling was still alive within me. Other lines of Hueys were all around us in the air. The combined beats of their main rotors made a noise, which gave rhythm to that feeling, which was now growing inside me. Of course, no Vietnam Vet, will ever forget the distinctive beat of a Huey's main rotor blade. That sound will always send a shiver up our spines. On this particular ride, however, the beat of the blades, not only amliphied my euphoria, but their rhythmic sound evoked another strange happening in my head. To their drum beat, the song "Hey Mr. Tambourine Man", by the Byrds, started playing over and over in my head. I had first heard that song, while listening to the Saigon radio station, on a small radio, which I carried in my ruck sack. Now, it was repeating itself again and again, as I sat with my feet dangling out the door of the Huey. Yes, I am now convinced, that on this day, June 17, 1967, I was well on my way to losing my "freaking" 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, so I always tried to sit as close to the door gunner as possible. Once at altitude, it wasn't very long before I could see a few moving specks several miles from us, diving toward the ground like some many angry birds. The specks grew larger as our formation of faded olive green Hueys drew closer. Those specks soon turned out be the phantom jets, that 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 huge orange fire balls of napalm contrasted against the green of the jungle and the blue of the sky.

     It had been a long and terrifying afternoon for forward observer David Hearne and an even more terrifying one for Murry, and his machine gunners, Garcia, and Pointer. It had also been just as terrifying for many others, as well. Men had been killed all around Murry, Garcia, and Pointer, as 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 air born in his bubble helicopter early on. He wanted to place himself in a position to better coordinate artillery and air strikes, but like everything else this guy did, in the heat of battle, that was a mistake. The background noise from his helicopter and the battle, itself, plus the increasing amount of smoke, created by the battle, prevented him from affectively doing what he was trying to do. For all intents and purposes, when Lazzell went airborne, he became just another observer of the battle going on below him.

     As I said, my legs dangled in the air just above the Huey's landing skids, so I would be ready to step out on the helicopter's runner, when we were within jumping distance of the ground. The Huey would be a death trap if we started receiving incoming fire. When we reached the LZ, choppers in front of ours banked and swooped low over the trees to lessen the chance of taking a hit, as they dropped guys off. 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 said that he was already on the ground directing traffic, when my B company got there, which did not surprise me. I immediately dropped the 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 1/16th battalion. 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 after telling me that, mortar rounds started falling to our right side. One landed no more than ten yards away. The 1 /16th 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 the largest mortar attack of the day. I would not find out until over fifty years later that this mortar attack had wiped out one entire squad in my platoon, which was to my right. Captain Brown's RTO, Fred Walters, told me years later that Porky Morton, Bianchi, Schotz, Ruiz and Lemon were among those wounded in that squad. They were wounded so badly, that they never returned to the unit. At the time, I had assumed that only one or two men had been wounded, at most. 

     Triet had no intention of keeping the fight going after Cavazos arrived, nor did he have the ability to do so, if he had wanted to. His supply of "weaponized deplorables" 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 met. Now, it was time to withdraw and wait for a resupply of more, young "rice farmer conscripts", who had already started flowing into his hidden base camps in the area. The last mortar attack was only to keep us pinned down long enough, to make good his withdrawal. Minutes after that shelling stopped, orders came down for my unit to start digging in. The 1/16th soldier soon left me and joined up with what was left of his A company. Lazzell's battered unit was air lifted to Chi Linh airstrip, minus "who else" but the "Ole War Horse", Captain Ulm, and the men of his B company. Forward observer, David Hearne, who later wrote a book about the battle, slept across the clearing from me that night, but he didn't unwind until he had made sure that his guns, located five miles away, had properly registered locations in his assigned sector. He also made sure that there were a good number of flare canisters, readily available, to light up the perimeter, in case we were attacked in the middle of the night. Although David didn't realize it, he was in the "good hands" of the "wiliest fox" in the woods. I almost pity any enemy unit who would have had the nerve to hit Dick's lines on this night, and that's not an idle boast. That statement would be well proven in the months to come.

     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 the their bellies. I left my two nameless foxhole substitutes, for Milliron and Bowman, and made my way back to where I had dropped off my ruck sack. As I recovered it , Chinooks were now dropping off Marston matting, Maddox’s and sand bags. 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 crewman could have easily mistaken us for a colony of worker ants, in human form. In less than two hours, our DePuy bunkers were finished. Listening posts were also established and night ambush patrols were assembling to leave the perimeter, for a dot on a map. These were ambush locations, which I am now sure were scrutinized by Dick, himself. Since my position was concealed inside the wood line, I never realized that the First Infantry Division commander, Major General Hay, dropped in long enough to pin a silver star on the chest of Pvt. First Class Ben Walker, from the Black Lions B company. I don't know why Garcia and Pointer didn't get one? Something else happened too, or maybe I should say, "stopped happening". When I had first arrived, my olfactory nerves were bombarded with the sickening sweet smell of burning flesh and napalm. The smell had been so intense that it soon deadened those same nerves, and the smell went away. That night, between my times on guard, I slept like a baby, beside our bunker, on my air mattress. Listening to the "Byrds" sing in my head had seemed to work for me. The night passed without an incident.

     Next morning it was business as usual for us "Dogfaces" (radio call sign for Cavazos) of the 1/18th. 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. This guy never seemed to hold a grudge against me for yanking his rifle out of his bullying hands, but from that day forward, I never liked him. I 'am sure that's why I can't remember his name. As we continued to review and commit to memory the azimuths for each check point, on the map, 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 made no inspection of each individual grunt. He was definitely not a "hen-pecker" 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. 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 myself, but then, I was the eternal "over-thinker".    

     A mild drizzle began to fall as we left the perimeter and headed out, following our first azimuth, through the virgin jungle. The drizzling rain was protection against our patrol being detected by the "black pajama watchers" staked out around the clearing. It muffled the noise we made. Rain also prevented the enemy from smelling us. Not far into the jungle, I walked past a few dead bodies and 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 in part. 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 almost never placed in the wide expanses of the jungle. I went 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. That fact, coupled with the fact, that I had been raised by a father who taught me a little about navigating the woods, contributed greatly to my survival. It’s true, that the lessons in sports and other school activities, promoted by other fathers, gave their sons a head start on me in the civilized world. However, this world was not civilized. I don't think that I would have survived this world to return to that other one, if not for those alternative lessons, which I learned from my father. Those lessons meant that I had no problem holding the compass, and shooting a bearing, while continually counting paces, all without Milliron being there to help. The distance to the first check point was around 800 meters. The second check point would be almost twice that. This was no short security patrol. It was more like a recon patrol and the longest squad patrol, which I had ever run. There was one more thing, worth mentioning. It was something which was hugely important to the survival of any patrol.  It was our squad radio and, on this day, it would literally save our lives. Truth is, it could be a big distraction for a point man like me, so I almost always tuned it out. I had come to count on Bartee, relaying to me, what I needed to know. Today, without Bill and Glen's help, it was more important, than ever, to ignore the radio and give my full attention to the job, at hand.

     Looking back now, it was apparent, that there was a lot of signs, indicating a heavy enemy presence. The enemy unit, which attacked Lazzell at LZ X-Ray, was also the same unit, which attacked 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. Could it be, that decimated units like the 271st were not retreating to Cambodia every time they got "shot up", as we naive  Americans believed? Given time constraints, that just didn't seem to be 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 we Americans, with a little help from the news media, were giving too much credit to the enemy. There simply would not have been enough time for Thanh to have reconstituted this unit, transforming raw recruits, into the "fabled" and "storied" veteran jungle warriors, whom we read about on "Google". Here is a much more plausible explanation. Shortly after the battle of Ap Gu, the surviving conscripts of the 271st kept moving south, as they replenished their ranks, 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 veterans, as we supposed, but instead, were "doped-up" brown uniformed teenage conscripts, whose jungle fighting skills were limited to, not much more, than a ten-minute lesson, on how to fire an AK 47 or a handheld rocket launcher. They were also given a twenty-minute lesson on how to respond to a whistle or a bugle, as their more committed communist cadre herded them into their "death charge" positions.   

     On this day, my squad patrol was in close proximity, with many enemy forces of all sizes. So, with this ever-increasing enemy presence, why weren't my unit's small patrols making more contact? Here is one reason. Cavazos made sure our patrols stayed off trails, but, because speed was essential to the enemy, they mostly stayed on the trails. They didn't have helicopters and other transport aircraft. So, their vast network of trails was how the enemy got around so quickly, to perform a myriad of murderous, but time sensitive missions. Clawing through thick jungle vegetation, to ambush a small American patrol was not a wise use of their valuable time. They usually had "bigger fish to fry", than ambushing a small patrol, like the one we were running this morning.

     After we had gone almost due west for three or four hundred meters, its 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, whether we did hear and whether we did know, or not, would have made little difference. In Vietnam, 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, which, except for the Medal of Honor, has always been a very subjective undertaking. Medic, Mike Stout, received a silver star, but machine gunners Garcia and Pointer, who prevented the entire northeastern section of the line from collapsing, did not.

     About an hour and a half into Westmoreland's visit, a new guy in B Company 2/28th, David Aldridge, was making his very first security sweep, just outside the perimeter, along with Staff Sergeant Jiminez, the team's RTO, Buck Sergeant Glover and point man Guy Clinger. New guy, Aldridge, had been assigned to Guy Clinger's position soon after he arrived the previous afternoon. His clothes were still bloody, from riding to X-Ray on a Chinook, which had been evacuating the wounded. Before loading aboard, Aldridge had watched in horror, as many of the flying beast's bloodied and "walking wounded" passengers had helped each other stumble down the off-ramp. When Aldridge arrived at his destination, 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 away. With only their entrenching tools, to do the job, digging their DePuy bunker took almost the entire night. Now, as he began his first full day in the field, I am sure Aldridge 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's squad to check out one of those infamous 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 us Americans. When the fire fight ended, David Aldridge had earned his C.I.B. and lost his new-found buddy, Guy Clinger. This all happened within his first 24 hours in the field. I thank God, that we "Dogface" boys had a commander who unilaterally took the initiative to enforce an order for us to stay off trails. We "Dogfaces" crossed trails, walked beside trails and ambushed trails, but we never walked on trails. As a matter of fact, I was now leading my squad alongside a well-traveled ox cart trail, which skirted the bamboo ticket to my left. The 25 meters or so, of jungle foliage between us and the trail, however, concealed our movement and the wet jungle deadened the sounds we made.     

     I am sure my patrol was still close enough, to hear the shooting from the fire fight. However, random shooting was common. If we heard the fire fight, we would not necessarily have associated it, with being a hostile action. It could have been "practice firing" of some sort. Furthermore, while on patrol, for security and noise abatement reasons, no news of a small fire fight would have been transmitted to us because we usually kept the radio turned "way down". Generally speaking, base rarely called us first, about anything. 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 worked, to cancel any errors in navigation. Staff Sergeant Bartee walked along silently about 10 meters behind me. Since time spent at "Fire Base Thrust", he had come to acquire complete trust in my judgment. Somewhere in the jungle, to our front, the shrill shriek of a blue pitta could be heard above a chorus of other jungle birds. There were also bands of gray langur monkeys hiding high in the tree tops, 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 men on the ground, or under it, and not from tree snipers. So, that's where my eyes "stayed peeled". You see, since we were passing through rather thick secondary undergrowth, it would have been just as hard for a tree sniper to look down and see me, as it would have been for me to look up and see him. That's one more reason, why tree snipers didn't hang out in the middle of the jungle, waiting on a small patrol, like us, to come along. I also rarely looked back, unless Bartee whispered for me to do so. When walking point, I suppose I was in what some point men called the "zone". I, personally, didn't have a name for it, but if I had, I would simply have called it "hunting". I just did what I had done in the George Washington National Forest of Virginia, so many times before, which was to spend one boring hour after another giving my full attention to spotting "out of place" details and movement to my front. 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 "better".

     I quietly announced our arrival at the first check point. With little ado, Bartee nodded. I then began "shooting " a new compass bearing. It was on an azimuth which would take us almost due north. I can't remember whether Bartee allowed the men to pause for smokes, or not. 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 second check point and it was also one of the easiest "walks" I had ever taken through the jungle. 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 check point. I could also "sight in" my compass on objects, which were much further away. This increased our ability to stay on course while incrementally saving time, because we did not have to stop and reshoot headings, as often. The sky cleared and the sun above us was brilliant. Shards of almost liquid sunlight pierced the canopies of the giant jungle trees, spaced out around us. They were huge and very similar to the one, which had protected us that night outside "Fire Base Thrust". Those straight rays of light, streaming around their trunks, 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. 30 meters to my front a mongoose hopped from "spot to spot". While watching that mongoose, the same peaceful feeling, which I experienced, as I sat along that river bank late at night months ago, began to come over me. I know now that it was the peace associated with the "rising up" of the Holy Spirit, in my mind. He knew something, which we didn't. He knew, that left to our own devices, we were not going to live long enough to reach our second check point.

     On and on we went. The men following behind were being exceptionally quiet this morning. 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. That sight 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, which meant we would be much further away, if we needed help. The further we went, the more I could sense the growing fear in them. I could also sense that same fear starting to overshadow that brief Holy Spirit peace, which I had allowed myself to experience, as I momentarily soaked in the majesty and almost prehistoric grandeur of the jungle around me. Somewhere to our front I could hear the cry of another blue pitta. The blue pitta shrieked again and within seconds after its next sharp shriek, I heard the voice. It was not an audible voice. Actually, it had a much more powerful effect on me, than if it had been an audible voice. This voice momentarily over-rode everything, which my five senses were telling me. It was the voice of The Holy Spirit and He simply 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 just stood staring at Bartee, who 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, while the rest of the squad remained motionless behind us. As he closed the gap between me and him, he never took his eyes off mine and he never uttered a word. When he stopped, his face was five feet from my face. He stood there as quietly, as if he was a "church goer" waiting for the praying to begin. 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 foot 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 said, in a very "matter-of-factly" whisper. When this communication was given, Bartee's trusting demeanor never changed. There was not a hint of doubt in his face, as to the truth of what I had just said, although I had no natural proof, whatsoever, to back it up. Without that proof, I am convinced no other squad leader in the entire First Division would have taken me at my word. Over the last few months, however, Bartee had developed the rare ability to trust his men, to a degree, which only great leaders are capable of doing. Here's the truth. 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 flak from me. In fact, I would have agreed with any second guessing of what I had just said, in the absence of any hard proof. Yes, I, myself, was now having serious doubts. However, Bartee took my original unfiltered announcement and acted on it before I could express those doubts. That's real leadership. Looking back now, I have no doubts, that Bartee had been placed in my squad, by divine providence, for just such times as this. However, though Bartee wholeheartedly believed me, the final decision on whether or not to continue on course was not up to him.

A person sitting on the ground

Picture of Sgt. Bartee Sent to Me
in 2017 by Fred Walters

     "I'll call "command" and see what they want us to do", Bartee whispered. Fortunately, the "ole man", himself, was made privy to the call. I say "fortunately", because there were many command levels between a security patrol and the battalion commander. In most cases, any of those levels could have unilaterally made the decision, to tell us what to do next. For example, Captain Brown was the CO of my B Company and the decision, on whether we were to continue on our route, could have easily fallen to him, alone. Here was the problem with that. There really was an entire battalion sized base camp located less than one hundred meters to our front, but I had no visible proof. Acting on a point man's word alone, would not have been something, which most leaders, at any level, would have done. The First Infantry Division just didn't operate on that level of trust. One major reason, for that, was this. The short rotation periods, of officers and men didn't give a unit's leaders enough time in combat to know themselves, much less their men. Bartee, Cavazos, and I suspect Captain Ulm were very rare exceptions, to that deadly trend. When Bartee called our command post to say that his point man believed there was an enemy force located directly to our front, not only did Cavazos not hesitate to tell us to turn around and back track the way we came, but he also told Bartee to mark our present location on the map. "America makes plenty of bombs", he told Bartee. "We will bomb this spot tonight and see if there is anything out there or not. I don't want to take the chance of getting any of "you boys" hurt". As our patrol arrived back at base camp, I cannot describe how relieved everyone felt. Yet, there had been not the slightest contact with the enemy. It was really uncanny, that the situation could warrant such a feeling of relief. And, that relief didn't wait until we returned to base camp. It immediately flooded over each of us, the moment that Cavazos stuck a pin in the tension, by telling us to turn around and come home. Even after surviving the last mortar attack, we had not felt as relieved, as we did now, but seemingly, over nothing. 

     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 patrols for us tonight. I learned nothing about the arrival earlier in the day of our high-powered visitors. I also learned nothing about the fire fight, which took place just outside the perimeter, while we were on patrol. After settling into my position on the perimeter, the predominate thought was to keep my ears tuned to hear the helicopter, which would bring one of Tiny's home cooked meals to us in Mermite containers. I did, on occasion, write letters home. So, maybe I settled down to write a letter. I can't remember. One thing that I do remember not feeling, however, was this. I felt little concern, at all, about whether I was right or wrong, when I warned Bartee that the enemy was where I said they were. I was just happy to be alive, and felt I had no professional reputation, whatsoever, to uphold. The Army had just recently helped reinforce that feeling, when it had demoted me to E-2.

     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, the kind made when 750-pound bombs tear "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 bombsite to see, if indeed, there had been an enemy presence near where I had said it was. Tonight, I just 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 division, so I had little concern about how well I would sleep tonight. I believe the correct description is, again, "I slept like a baby", a baby, who was awakened every three hours to pull guard.

     The next morning, on the 19th of June, my entire company moved out early to survey the results of the bombing, which shook the ground the night before. We took a more direct approach than my squad had taken the day before. I believe my platoon was in the lead, but I don't believe that my squad was the point squad. It was easy to tell when we had arrived at the bomb site, because the majestic rain forest, which had looked to me like the "Garden of Eden" yesterday, now had been devastated. The bombs had left deep craters in the ground. Huge trees, which were hundreds of years old, had been uprooted and it was very hard 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 sweet smell of dead human flesh. Unfortunately, I had smelled this odor too many times before. 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 was the destruction of a very large enemy base camp, which had obviously been located directly in the path of our security patrol. Large, disheveled pieces of bamboo, used as supports for overhead covering, were scattered everywhere. Ten-man earthen bunkers and underground connecting tunnels were caved in, possibly burying hundreds of enemy conscripts, preventing any possibility of an accurate body count. Some rather intact body parts had been flung in all directions, landing in grotesque poses. No doubt, many of these slave victims to tyranny had been resting in a relatively peaceful state, before their earthly souls were translated from one hopeless situation to a infinitely worse one, in hell. It was obvious. The enemy had no clue, that they were going to be targeted by an air strike. I believe that almost every person in that camp was killed. As I describe these cold unvarnished and sobering facts to the reader, it gives me only a feeling of anguish. That anguish comes from the realization, that such destruction not only means loss of lives in the here and now. It also means the loss of the infinite potential, which each of those lost lives represented. Yet, I was not responsible for their deaths. Things could have been different for them, if only they could have humbled themselves, to heed the voice of that same Holy Spirit, who speaks to every human being, who as ever possessed a conscience awareness. If that had been their choice, then the same power, which delivered me that day, would have made a way of escape for each of them, too. You see, while in these natural bodies, it is not natural death, which has dominion over us. It is the fear of eternal death, which enslaves us, and that fear is magnified by Satan's messengers. However, humbling ourselves, before God, by excepting His gift of life breaks that evil curse and it breaks that curse whether one is residing in a a prison or a mansion, or a bunker in the jungle. My life is living proof for the veracity of this statement. There was little doubt that this was the camp of those responsible for the ambush of the 1/16th and the 2/28th on the 17th of June.

     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 simply said, "I always trusted my men".  I was then corrected by him, when I mentioned that the bombing run was made by B-52's. "Wayne", he said, "Those were not B-52's. Those were Australian Canberra's. Most likely they were from the RAAF 2nd squadron, which had been initially deployed at Phan Rang on April 19th, 1967. They destroyed 47 of 53 ten-man bunkers, which could easily have housed a battalion sized force. The successful outcome of that bombing could have been the result of using Canberra's instead of B-52's. 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 bombing runs.

     We stuck around LZ-X-Ray until the 23rd of June, along with Hearne and his 2/28th Infantry, which he was attached to. Both battalions made company-sized sweeps of the area during the next three days, but made no significant contact with the enemy. Triet was still around. We knew that to be true, because Our night ambush patrols verified his presence, by the amount of enemy activity, which they heard traveling up and down the network of trails, in that area. On the morning of the 23rd of June, we were flown out, by helicopters, just after the 2/28th was air lifted out. The choppers took us on a twenty-five-minute ride to Fire Base Gunner 2. There we waited until afternoon to catch a ride in some C-130 fixed winged aircraft which flew us into Di An and a nice folding cot to sleep in that night, out of the rain.



Lt. Col. Richard Cavazos