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Sapper Attack - December 28, 1969 |
The following
first-person account of the sapper attack on Alpha Company on the night of
December 28, 1969, is an excerpt from the book "We
Were The Third Herd" written by Sgt. Richard F. "Hound Dog" Hogue.
By December 28th, Sgt. Hogue was the senior member of his platoon.
Hogue's 3rd Platoon, the "third herd", had suffered several devastating losses
earlier that year and the platoon contained many new men. 2Lt. John
Foreman had been leading 3rd platoon for only one month, and he relied upon
Hogue for advice. Just one month after the events in this narrative,
Sgt. Hogue himself would be medevaced from the field after losing his leg to a
booby-trap.
My thanks to Dick for sharing this so that we may honor the sacrifice made by
the eight men killed in that action.
I Thought You Were Dead
Excerpts from
Chapter 15
As we flew toward the Ho
Bo Woods I looked at the other men who were quietly enjoying the peaceful
ride. Although all was quiet at I
knew the dangers that lay ahead of us.
I hoped we all would be able to safely hop on a Huey for a return trip
to firebase Patton.
We flew around for
almost half an hour while Captain Dalton, who was in the lead chopper, scouted
to find the location where we were supposed to set up.
We were finally dropped off in the middle of the Ho Bo Woods.
When the last lift of choppers
arrived we walked a short distance and then Captain Dalton said, “This is it
men.”
The first thing we did was make a
cautious sweep of the area checking for booby traps.
We found none. Captain Dalton and the platoon leaders lined out a circular
perimeter about 100 feet in diameter.
The first and third platoons then identified individual positions to
dig foxholes and assigned four men to each location. The second platoon would set up an ambush a few hundred
meters outside the perimeter that night.
Each foxhole was spaced 20 to 25 feet
apart to maintain visibility between each position after dark and to minimize
the possibility of the VC sneaking in between any two foxholes.
The men then began the laborious task of digging foxholes and filling
sand bags that soon arrived to build a wall of protection in front of each
foxhole. Our mortar platoon set
up their 81MM mortar tubes near the center of the site, and if necessary, they
could initiate return mortar fire much faster than calling in artillery
support from miles away. The CO
also established his Command Post in the center of the site.
We stationed a few men around the
perimeter to stand guard while everyone else dug in.
If there were any VC out there, and there were, they easily could have
seen or heard the choppers flying in to drop off supplies and equipment after
we arrived. If they were looking
for action, they would be headed our way.
The tall grass, bushes and small trees limited our visibility in every
direction around the perimeter.
We spent a lot of time trying to clear as much vegetation as possible to
improve our visibility.
I positioned my squad along the south
and southwest perimeter. Robert Draughn, Dave Hardy, Carlton Quick and I took
a position near the center of the southern perimeter.
We located our M-60 machine gun with us so we could cover most of the
southern perimeter with machine gun fire.
Bob Emery’s squad was positioned to cover the northwest and northern
perimeter along with Lieutenant Foreman.
Jim Overby joined three other men in a foxhole on the western
perimeter. There was a huge pile
of sand bags, coils of chain link wire, concertina wire, steel posts and tools
in the center of the compound. The men took whatever they needed to set up each
position.
Choppers arrived periodically
carrying more equipment, C-rations and water.
We pounded steel posts into the ground and attached the chain link wire
to form an eight-foot high wire wall of protection from incoming rockets or
grenades in front of each foxhole.
When we began stretching the coils of concertina wire around the outer
edge of our perimeter, we found a problem.
There wasn’t enough concertina wire.
I went to Lieutenant Foreman and
said, “We need more concertina wire.
With the wire we have we’ll have to stretch it too tight to cover the
entire perimeter.”
He said, “I was told no more
materials were being delivered.
But I’ll check to see if they can get some more concertina wire out here.”
I said, “Thanks, if we don’t get more
wire, we’re going to end up with a half-assed perimeter.”
Lieutenant Foreman came by a short
while later and said, “The CO requested more concertina wire but it won’t be
delivered until tomorrow.”
I said, “Tomorrow? We need that wire
today!”
In frustration I continued, “If
they’re going to send us out here in the middle of “Charlie’s” country, the
least they could do was to give us enough material to set up a decent
perimeter.”
“I know Hound Dog,” Lieutenant Forman
replied, “I don’t like it out here any better than anyone else.”
The multiple rows of concertina wire
surrounding our firebases allowed only a few inches between the coils of
concertina wire and made it nearly impossible for anyone to crawl through
without getting tangled in the coils.
Unfortunately, we had to settle for one row of concertina wire that was
stretched so tight there were spaces more than a foot wide between many of the
coils. Like I had told Lieutenant
Foreman, it was a half-ass defensive perimeter.
Fortunately, they had delivered trip flares we could set out in front
of us along with a huge supply of claymore mines.
If the NVA/VC tried to sneak through the concertina wire, they
hopefully would trip a flare. The
NVA and VC use what were called sappers to sneak into an American position and
inflict as many casualties as they could before they were normally killed
themselves. It was normally a
suicide mission for them, similar to the Japanese “kamikaze” pilots diving
their planes into American war ships during WWII.
By late afternoon we were all hot,
sweaty and dirty from working our butts off in the hot sun to clear some of
the vegetation, dig foxholes and fill hundreds of sandbags.
Finally, each position had a two to three foot high sandbag wall that
curved around the front side of each foxhole that was about two feet deep.
Jim Overby and I took a short break
while we looked over the site.
Jim didn’t like it at all out there.
He said, “I can’t believe we set up
here. I talked with the CO about
looking for another site before we started setting up, but he wanted to stay
here. This isn’t where we were
supposed to set up.”
I said, “I know it’s a lousy spot but
we have a hell of a lot of firepower out here.
It’ll take a lot of gooks with lots of guts to come after us.”
Jim said, “Yah, maybe so, but I can’t
wait to get out of here.”
I said, “Hey, we’ll make it out of
here.”
I wasn’t happy to be spending the
night in the Ho Bo Woods either but I wasn’t scared.
Not at that moment anyway.
We put a few more men on guard as the afternoon passed.
There hadn’t been any sign of enemy activity but each chopper that
arrived with supplies and equipment helped pinpoint our location.
The last chopper arriving that afternoon dropped off a Night Pack.
The Night Pack had M-16 and M-60 ammunition, mortar rounds, claymore
mines, hand grenades and whatever else in the form of weaponry we might need
for the night. Although we had
lots of weapons and ammunition, my biggest concern was if the NVA/VC happened
to have a mortar tube out there, they could tear us up with a few well-placed
mortar rounds. We didn’t have any
large bunkers to scurry into for protection.
Our final defensive measure was to set out claymore mines in front of
each position and run the electric wires back to our foxhole and connect them
to the detonators. We had five or
six claymores in front of each position.
Jim Overby and I walked around the
perimeter to double check the third platoon’s positions and coordinate primary
fields of fire between adjoining foxholes.
We noticed bushes and small hedgerows still limited the visibility for
some positions. We had the guys
go out on two-man teams and knock down a few more bushes to improve their
visibility. One man stood guard
while the other man knocked or chopped down the bushes.
The more I looked over the perimeter the more I didn’t like it.
At best we could only see 15 to 20 meters in any direction.
When it was dark, we wouldn’t be able to see much of anything.
Jim may have been right; maybe it was the wrong site.
Surely there was a place with more visibility.
I walked back to my foxhole and
opened a can of spaghetti and meatballs for my dinner.
Suddenly, I heard the rumbling sound of our .50-caliber machine gun
firing from the northeast perimeter.
I threw my half eaten can of spaghetti on the ground, grabbed my M-16
and jumped inside our foxhole. We
all looked out over the perimeter with our weapons ready but saw nothing.
The firing soon stopped.
Someone yelled, “That was just a test fire.”
The men in the mortar platoon decided
to test fire the “50.” They
scared the hell out of everyone for nothing.
I shook my head and said to the guys
in my foxhole, “What the hell are those guys doing?
They just told “Charlie” where our .50 caliber machine gun was.”
It wasn’t a smart move.
The
sun was starting to set in the western sky.
I told the men in my foxhole, “I’m going over to talk with 3-6.”
On
my way I ran into Lieutenant Higginson and his second platoon as they were
leaving to set up their ambush.
I said, “Be careful out there. See
you guys in the morning,” as they passed by.
I then saw Bill Casey in the CP
group. I said, “What do you think
Casey?”
Casey said, “I think it might be a
long night Hound Dog. Everyone in
Ho Bo Woods knows we’re here.”
“Yah I know, I don’t like knowing
that. See you later Casey.”
When I reached the northern perimeter
I knelt down by Lieutenant Foremen who was sitting on the ground with his feet
in his foxhole.
I asked,
“Are you ready 3-6?”
He said, “Yes I think so.”
I then asked, “Have you set out your
claymores?”
“Yes.”
“Have you coordinated fields of
fire?”
He said, “Yes.
But we have lousy visibility.”
I looked out over their perimeter and
said, “You’re right. We can see a
little bit further on the south side. But after dark none of us will be able to see much out there
anyway.”
Lieutenant Foreman shared his foxhole
with Mike Myers, Bob Emery and Whitey.
I asked Whitey, “How’s it going?”
“Oh, I’m feeling better sarge.”
I said, “Great. I’ll see you guys in
the morning,” and gave Bob a pat on the back.
I walked to the next foxhole where
Terry Thornton, Chuck Merritt, and two FNGs, Roger Cox and Allen Rader were
settled in.
I said, “Terry, you guys all set?”
Terry replied, “Yah, we’re ready,
don’t worry.”
“Good,” I said, “See you guys later.”
I continued to move counter clockwise
from Lieutenant Forman’s position and chatted briefly with Doc Snyder, Bob
Ryken and stopped a minute to talk with Jim Overby before I reached my foxhole
on the southern perimeter.
Quick had the M-60 resting on top of
our sand bag wall. We could
easily spray the area in front of our position and most of the southern
perimeter if we needed to. We had
about 3,000 rounds of M-60 ammunition laid out and ready to fire.
Robert Draughn and I had plenty of ammunition clips laid out in
bandoleers around the foxhole along with over a dozen hand grenades laying
behind our foxhole. It would soon
be getting dark. There wasn’t anything else I could think of that we could do.
We would settle in and wait to see what would happen.
Unfortunately, I had a personal
problem to deal with before it was completely dark.
I had been feeling a case of diarrhea coming on during the afternoon.
I didn’t think I would make it through the night without making a
“mother nature” call.
I told the men in the foxhole to our
left I was walking forward in between our foxholes.
I quickly dug a small hole amongst the grass, dropped my pants and
squatted down with my backside facing outward toward the perimeter.
I had been squatted down for only a few seconds when a loud “BOOM!”
sounded behind me and my bare butt stung as something hit it.
Instinctively, I fell belly first on the ground and without hesitating
began low crawling towards our foxhole with my fatigue pants down to my knees
while the men from the foxholes on either side of me opened fire over my head.
I dove into the foxhole.
Dave Hardy looked at me and said,
“Are you okay?”
I said, “I think so.”
My heart was pounding and I took a
deep breath while I tried to figure out what happened to me.
I quickly rubbed one hand over the cheeks of my butt.
I felt no pain and saw no blood.
I then pulled my pants up while Quick and Hardy sprayed M-60 rounds
across the area in front of us.
I then heard “Cease fire! Cease
fire!” coming from the CP.
I tapped Quick on his shoulder and
motioned to stop firing. There
were no other explosions after the one that had peppered me.
I looked at the foxholes on each side of us.
No one else had been wounded.
A NVA/VC soldier must have been hiding
in front of us and saw me walk near the wire.
He threw a hand grenade at me after I squatted down.
Fortunately, the throw was too short.
I was hit only by dirt and debris blown toward me by the exploding
grenade. A little longer toss and
I could have been dead.
I then realized my case of diarrhea
had disappeared. That hand
grenade must have literally sacred the shit right out of me as the saying
goes. After things quieted down
again the guys in the foxhole chuckled when they talked briefly about my trip
near the wire.
Quick said,
“You looked funny as hell crawling back here with your pants down
around your knees.”
I said, “Yah, I probably did. But I
wasn’t going to stop out there to pull them up.
I expected more grenades.”
Although I had survived my little
excursion near the wire we definitely knew there were enemy troops out there.
They likely worked their way toward us that afternoon and were waiting
for the cover of darkness to make a move.
It remained quiet for several hours after dark while we pulled guard
with two men awake at each foxhole.
I had finished an hour on guard and was wrapped up in my poncho liner
sleeping next to our foxhole when it sounded like all hell was breaking loose
on our northern perimeter.
“BOOM!” “BOOM!”
There were repeated explosions and
gunfire along the north and west perimeter.
I grabbed my helmet and rifle and joined the three other men in our
foxhole. It didn’t appear we were
taking any enemy fire but explosions and gunfire continued on the north and
west perimeters. Gunfire then
began erupting from several other positions around the perimeter.
I then heard claymores being fired.
I didn’t know what was happening but
as a precaution I yelled, “Quick, open fire with the 60.”
Hardy fed the string of rounds into
the machine gun and orange tracers glowed in the dark while Quick sprayed
hundreds of rounds back and forth along the southern perimeter.
Draughn fired one of our claymore mines and I threw two hand grenades
into the darkness in front of our foxhole in case enemy sappers were trying to
work their way in.
The entire perimeter soon erupted
with rifle and machine gun fire.
Hand grenades were flying out from every foxhole.
The flurry of the rifle and machine fire combined with the hand grenade
and claymore mine explosions was as loud and continuous as I had ever heard.
The flurry of action was so overwhelming I couldn’t tell if it was all
friendly fire or enemy fire directed back at us.
All I knew for sure, was the four of us in my foxhole were uninjured.
If there were enemy troops outside the perimeter, they would have be damned
lucky to survive the barrage of firepower we were unleashing.
Robert Draughn nervously yelled,
“You guys see anything out there?”
I yelled, “No, keep firing!” I still
didn’t know what had initiated all of the action.
I couldn’t see anything to the left
side of our foxhole but I sprayed several clips of ammunition from my M-16
into bushes and tall grass anyway.
I could hear the “pops” as the mortar platoon began firing outgoing
rounds and could hear the explosions when the mortars landed only a short
distance outside the perimeter.
After several minutes of continuous
firing we heard, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” coming from the CP.
Captain Dalton wanted everyone to
stop firing so he could determine exactly what the hell had happened and what
we should do next. Something had
obviously initiated the action on the northern perimeter, but those of us on
the south side still had no idea what happened.
When the firing eventually stopped Quick, Hardy, Draughn and I huddled
in our foxhole. The barrel of
Quick’s machine gun was smoking and it smoked even more when he poured
lubricating oil on it to cool it down. We all strained our eyes while gazing outward over the
perimeter looking for any movement.
Not knowing what would happen next.
There wasn’t any moonlight so we couldn’t see a damn thing.
I yelled to the positions on each
side of us, “Are you guys alright over there?”
“Yah, we’re fine,” was the reply.
I then heard men screaming for help
along the north and western perimeter. There were screams of extreme pain. Men were yelling “Doc!”
I could hear the voices of other men
who were apparently trying to aid the wounded and gain control of the
situation on the northwest perimeter.
I heard, “We need another medic over
here, Doc Snyder is hit.” Doc
Snyder was the third platoon’s medic.
I hesitated briefly and then told the
guys, “I’m going over to help those guys.”
I told Quick and Hardy to keep a
close eye to the front. I stepped
from the rear of our foxhole and had only taken a couple steps when someone
from the CP group yelled, “Don’t anyone move! There’s a live gook inside the wire!”
I immediately stopped and hit the
ground. I looked around for
movement while I slowly crawled back to our foxhole. Robert Draughn and I watched inward from the foxhole with our
fingers on the trigger of our M-16s while Quick and Hardy watched outward
along the perimeter. Although I
was ready to fire at any movement, I also had to be careful not to hit any of
our own men with friendly fire.
Sitting in our foxhole was the most helpless and frustrating few moments of my
life. Men were still screaming in
pain, but I couldn’t go help them.
We had to find that gook!
Where the hell was he?
Less than a minute later the bright
light from a trip flare lit up the eastern perimeter.
Immediately, there was machine gun and rifle fire and claymore mines
detonating and hand grenades being thrown in the direction of the flare.
I guessed the sapper who had been inside the wire, had somehow made it
to the eastern perimeter and tripped a flare trying to escape. Hopefully the men on the east side had killed the
son-of-a-bitch. The firing along
the eastern perimeter soon stopped.
It was again relatively quiet.
Word then came from the CP, “Sappers
attacked the northern perimeter.
Carefully search the area around your foxholes to be sure there aren’t other
sappers still alive inside the perimeter.”
I told Robert Draughn, “I’ll search
the area around us. You keep a
watch over me?”
Robert said, “Yah, I will.”
I slowly moved from our foxhole in a
low crouch toward my right with my left index finger on the trigger of my
M-16. I soon met up with a man
from the first platoon who had been in the foxhole to our east.
We both shook our heads “no” indicating we hadn’t seen anything.
When I circled to my left and toward the CP group I ran into Sam Ryan
from the mortar platoon who had been searching from the center of the
compound.
We knelt down for a moment and I
asked, “What the hell happened?”
He said, “Three sappers snuck through
the northern perimeter and threw satchel charges or hand grenades in several
foxholes. They then opened up
with AKs.”
Ryan then said, “You’ve lost several
men Hound Dog. I think 3-6 and
the guys in his foxhole are gone.”
“Son-of-a-bitch!” I said, “Who else?”
“I’m not sure.
But there’re a lot of guys down.”
I said, “Do they need more help over
there?”
He said, “No, the CO wants you guys
to stay on the southern perimeter in case they launch an attack over here.”
Ryan said men from the CP group and
the mortar platoon were caring for the injured men.
The CO had also moved some men from the CP group, mortar platoon and
other foxholes to stand guard in the foxholes on the northern perimeter where
the third herd had suffered heavy casualties.
I circled around to my left and met up with Vic Ortega who had been in
the foxhole to my right.
I asked, “Are you guys all okay?”
“Yah, we’re fine.
What the hell happened?”
I quickly told Vic what I knew and
then made it back to my foxhole without seeing anything.
When I reached the foxhole Hardy immediately asked, “What did you
hear?”
I said, “Sappers got through the
northern perimeter and hit some of the third platoon’s positions.
3-6 and the guys in his foxhole may be dead.”
Quick asked, “Who was with 3-6?”
“I don’t remember.”
And that was the truth. At
that moment I didn’t remember.
I said, “It sounds like there are
several wounded and KIAs over there.”
I walked to the foxhole to our left
and told the men what had happened and to stay put.
I told them to pass the word along to the position next to them.
I looked at my watch after I returned to our foxhole.
It was 12:30 a.m., December 28, 1969.
It remained quiet along the southern
and eastern perimeter. Everyone
was watching in the darkness for any signs of movement, with their weapons in
their hands. I sat in the
relative silence and remembered who was in the foxhole with Lieutenant
Foreman. My heart suddenly began
pounding when I remembered; Bob Emery, Whitey and Mike Myers had been in that
foxhole.
“No, not those guys,” I sadly said to
myself. I wondered how many of
the men I had spoken with before darkness were still alive.
After a short while I heard the sound
of choppers in the distance. Two
Cobra gunships were arriving to pepper the surrounding area with rockets and
machine gun fire before the dustoffs came in to evacuate the wounded and dead.
I had a strobe light and laid it in my upside down helmet beside our
foxhole to mark the southern perimeter.
Other strobe lights were set in helmets to mark each side of the
perimeter so the pilots could see where we were located.
The Cobras circled the perimeter firing rockets and unleashing a hail
of machine gun rounds into the surrounding countryside.
When the first dustoff neared we
heard rifle fire in the distance.
Somehow enemy troops were still alive out there and were firing at the
Chopper. We immediately laid down
another barrage of machine gun and rifle fire to protect the dustoff as it
descended from the south into the western perimeter. The blowing air from the rotating blades stirred up dirt and
debris inside the perimeter when the medevac lifted off with a load of wounded
men. The first dustoff was
followed by two more. “We must
have suffered a lot of casualties”, I thought.
After the last dustoff disappeared
into the darkness it was again quiet inside the perimeter.
Robert Draughn then looked to his right and quickly raised his M-16
while saying, “Something’s moving!”
I said, “Don’t shoot!”
“Hey, its Sergeant Overby,” Hardy
said.
I asked, “How bad did we get hit
Jim?”
“We got the hell shot out of us.”
Jim replied, “3-6 and most of the guys on the north side are gone.”
Bill Casey then stopped by our
foxhole and said, “They’re flying in more ammo. It should be here any minute.”
Quick said, “We’re almost out of M-60
ammo.”
Jim said, “Hang in there guys,
everybody is getting low on ammo.”
More choppers soon arrived bringing
the much needed ammunition and also flew in two platoons from firebase Patton.
I’m sure those reinforcements were awfully apprehensive after they were
pulled from the relative comfort of Patton and told they were being dropped in
the middle of the Ho Bo Woods in the middle of the night to help us.
The additional men were set up around
the perimeter and quickly dug foxholes in between our existing foxholes to
strengthen the entire perimeter.
Additional M-60 and M-16 ammunition and hand grenades were distributed to the
foxholes around the perimeter. We
had fired thousands of rounds after the initial sapper attack and had been
re-supplied with thousands more M-60 and M-16 rounds and hundreds of hand
grenades that hopefully would help us survive the remainder of what was
becoming the longest night of my tour.
Every man in each foxhole stayed on guard the rest of the night.
I doubt if any of us could have slept anyway.
Our strategy was to continue sporadic gunfire whether we spotted
anything or not. The enemy knew where we were but we would make it harder than
hell for them to get to us.
Every few minutes, rifle or machine
gun fire erupted from a foxhole. We through out hand grenades all night long.
I fired more rounds through my M-16 that night than I had during the
rest of my time in Vietnam.
Fortunately, Quick’s M-60 held up and fired thousands of rounds throughout the
night. After what seemed like an
eternity, I saw the eastern horizon begin to brighten and the sun slowly rose
over our site. We stayed in our foxholes while gunships arrived to survey
the surrounding countryside in the daylight.
The second platoon had survived their
night on ambush. I stood by our
foxhole while they cautiously swept the perimeter looking for enemy bodies or
weapons or whatever might be out there. Inside the perimeter men slowly started stepping out of their
foxholes, still being tentative about moving around too much and relaxing
their guard. We kept one man on
guard at each foxhole. I told the
guys I was going over to the CP to learn more about what happened and whom we
lost last night. When I walked
toward the middle of the perimeter I ran into Lieutenant Larry Frank, the
first platoon leader.
He looked at me almost in shock and
said, “What are you doing here? I
thought you were dead.”
I said, “What?”
“I was told you were killed last
night.”
“No, I’m alive.
Was there a Sergeant in the third herd killed?”
Lieutenant Frank said, “Yes.” My
heart nearly stopped.
I asked with hesitation, “Was it
Sergeant Emery?”
“I’m not sure.
Captain Dalton has the names.
You better check with him.
Sorry. But I’m glad you’re
alive.”
“Yah, me too.”
I said.
Captain Dalton had seen me talking
with Lieutenant Frank. He walked
up and put his hand on my shoulder.
“I have some bad news for you
Sergeant Hogue.”
I said, “Who did we lose?”
Captain Dalton handed me a list of
the men who had been killed. I
slowly read their names.
“John Foreman” (Lieutenant)
“Robert Emery”
“Terry Thornton”
“Charles Merritt”
“Danial Heiderich” (Whitey)
“Allen Rader”
“Otis Carthage, Jr.”
“Roger Cox”
I couldn’t believe it.
I read the names a second time to be sure.
I then asked about the wounded.
Doc Snyder was shot twice in the chest and Bob Ryken had a serious leg
wound. Randal Collins, who had been reassigned from the first
platoon, had his lower left leg completely severed.
And Ben Carlson, who had joined the third platoon earlier that month,
had serious shrapnel wounds.
“Those four men are still alive as
far as we know,” the CO said.
I silently stood there trying to
comprehend what I had just learned when Bill Casey came up to me.
I put my hand on Casey’s shoulder and said, “I can’t believe they’re
all gone Casey.” Tears filled my eyes.
“I know sarge.”
“What happened Casey?”
Casey said, “Three sappers snuck into
3-6’s position and threw satchel charges and hand grenades and fired Rocket
Propelled Grenades (RPG) into 3-6’s foxhole and the foxholes to the west.
They then opened up with AKs.”
Casey hesitated for a second and then
went on, “I grabbed my M-16 and started moving over there.
I saw three men walking toward me that I first thought were GIs.
But when I got closer I was face-to-face with three sappers.”
I said, “You’re kidding.”
“No, it’s the God’s honest truth.”
“Ok,” I said and I shook my head in
disbelief.
“Two sappers had an AK-47 and one had
a RPG launcher. I fired a burst
of rounds into the man carrying the RPG launcher,” Casey raised his arms
simulating firing. “He dropped to the ground.”
“One sapper with an AK started moving
to my left and I squeezed a burst into him that spun him completely around and
into the ground. The third sapper
began running east toward the first platoon,” Casey pointed a few feet from
where we were standing showing me where the third sapper headed.
Casey went on, “I turned and knelt
down and fired at his back. The gook hit the ground.
I hollered at the men in the first platoon to “finish him off.”
“Damn Casey,” I said, “You saved a
lot of our butts.”
“Well, that’s not all,” Casey said,
“I turned back to the first two sappers. One of them was raising his AK toward me.
I put a few more rounds in him and put a couple more rounds in the
other sapper to make sure they were both dead.”
“You did one hell of a job Casey,”
and patted him on the back.
“Maybe so sarge but it was too late
for those men in the foxholes,” he sadly said. “I don’t think most of the guys
knew what hit them,” Casey said, “They were killed before they had time to
react. It was pretty gruesome.”
I
asked, “How could they have snuck in like that?”
“Nobody knows.
I think it was too hard to see anything until it was too late.” Casey
said.
I asked Casey, “How bad were Doc
Snyder and Bob Ryken hit”
“I don’t know, I didn’t see either
one of them. But I saw Collins who lost his leg.
He was so scared he started hopping toward the medevac until two men
came to carry him on board. He yelled from the chopper, “Bring me my leg! Bring me my
leg!” Someone picked up Collins’
left leg that had been blown off below his knee and handed it to him before
the dustoff left.”
I would never get to know Collins or
the three other new guys we lost.
Casey pointed toward the western
perimeter and said, “The bodies of the two gooks are still over there.
The third one tried to crawl out the east side.
The second platoon found his body by the wire this morning.”
“Son-of-a-bitch Casey,” I said, “We lost
half of the third herd last night!”
The third herd had
arrived with 25 men. Eight of men
were dead and four more were seriously wounded.
There were only 13 of us left when the sun rose on December 28, 1969.
The following eight members of the
third platoon were killed on December 28, 1969.
Sergeant Robert Emery was from Marine City, MI.
He was18 years old. He
arrived in Vietnam on July 26, 1969.
Bob was wounded on two previous occasions but declined a transfer to
our mortar platoon. I have been
in touch with his mother and shared pictures of Bob while he was in Vietnam
and some details surrounding his death.
Corporal
Terry Thornton was from Tulsa, OK.
He was19 years old. He
arrived in Vietnam on July 30, 1969.
He talked about reenlisting to get out of field duty, but he never did.
He was married and had a daughter.
Second
Lieutenant John Foreman was from Manlius, NY.
He was 26 years old. He
arrived in Vietnam on November 24, 1969.
He served as our platoon leader for only one month.
Corporal Charles Merritt was from Runnells, IA.
He was 20 years old. He
arrived in Vietnam on October 12, 1969 and served as one of our RTOs.
I later learned his dad and mine grew up together in the small town of
Kellerton, Iowa. I met with his
family and visited his grave in 1970.
Specialist 4th Class
Danial Heiderich (Whitey) was from Overbrook, OK.
He was 20 years old. He
arrived in Vietnam on August 27, 1969.
Whitey served as a rifleman and one of our machine gunners for a while.
He was a good ole boy who died too young.
Corporal
Allan Rader was from Fostoria, OH.
He was 20 years old. He
arrived in Vietnam on December 7, 1969.
He had been in the field approximately one week when he was killed.
Corporal Otis
Carthage, Jr. was from Northport, AL.
He was 21 years old. He
arrived in Vietnam on December 9, 1969.
He had been in the field approximately one week when he was killed.
Corporal
Roger Cox was from Marietta, SC.
He was 20 years old. He arrived
in Vietnam on December 11, 1969.
He had been in the field approximately one week when he was killed.
You may visit the web site:
www.thevirtualwall.org to view additional information regarding these
men and all others killed in Vietnam.
The Memorial Service
Excerpts from Chapter 16
The men in the firing
squad were there when I arrived on the north side of the firebase.
There was an open area adjacent to the chopper pad that provided plenty
of room for the Company to gather.
The rest of the Company flew out early that morning for a RIF and had
returned to Patton shortly after we did.
The entire Company was soon gathering for the memorial service.
I hadn’t spent much time thinking about what I would say and didn’t
have any written notes prepared.
Although delivering a eulogy would be a new and difficult experience for me,
it was something I wanted to do.
When 2
o’clock arrived the firing squad stood at parade rest along the north side of
the area facing south. The
remaining members of the Company gathered in platoon formations on the east
side of the area facing west.
First Sergeant Seavey called the Company to attention and Captain Dalton
walked forward. We were given a
“parade rest” command.
Captain
Dalton began by saying, “Men, we’re here today to pay our respects to 10
members of Alpha Company, third platoon who gave their lives for their
country. I know the loss of these
men has left feelings of sorrow and frustration especially for you men in the
third platoon. Unfortunately,
their deaths and the deaths of thousands of other brave men are the tragic
consequence of this conflict. We
can only hope their deaths are not in vain.
I share in the sadness for their loss.
We all lost 10 brave comrades, but many of you have also lost 10 good
friends. May those men rest in
peace.
Chaplain
Morris continued the service by saying a prayer for our fallen comrades and
for their families back in the world.
He then read the 23rd Psalms:
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .”
After the
Chaplain finished reading the 23rd Psalms, he talked briefly about
war. He talked about the death
and tragedy inflicted by the fighting and how difficult it is to understand
especially when friends are killed.
He said, in summary that God allows man the free will to create the
destructive tools of war, and if we choose to use those tools to battle our
fellow man, we must endure the consequences.
Even when good friends are lost.
After a concluding prayer the Chaplain motioned for me to walk forward.
I started by
reading the names of the 10 men who were killed in December 1969:
