A (29:43)
Yelling and screaming, that's the worst. Not gonna help. Fast forward. 13 January 1968. The Reaction Squad was going out on patrol this afternoon. So I decided to go along since all my clerks and the supply sergeant are on the reaction squad. Now why would a 40 year old first sergeant go on patrol with a squad of marines when he did not have to go? It has been 17 years since my last patrol. Korea, 1950. I was a corporal then and much younger. H and S company provides the reaction squad for the battalion. It's composed of the Marines from heat and steam. I believe it exemplifies the doctrine of the Corps. All marines and riflemen first are Riflemen first and specialist second so what the group that he's in charge of is kind of like the administrative group headquarters and but they are the quick reaction force. So if something happens, these clerks and cooks and they're going to get their gear on and go get it. So they're going out on patrol. Fast forward a little bit. We leave the road now and start across country, sometimes referred to as Indian country. There are many native graves through here. We see see bullet scars on many a headstone. Fast forward. There are times Charlie plants booby traps on the side of the dikes, then fires. If you jump off and into the patty, you may land on a booby trap. So if Charlie fires a few rounds, this old man will fall down on the trail. That's something the Vietnam guys told us and it's always true. Like you're walking down the street and there's like a. If you start getting shot at and there's a perfect area of COVID chances are you getting blown up if you go in there. And this guy. I didn't experience this but In Afghanistan the IEDs got so bad that even when they got contacted they wouldn't like move to cover. They would stay where they are, get down. But they'd have to be very, very cautious. Fast forward. An interesting three hour walk. So now I've been on patrol. What was it like? Routine. I guess after 24 years of soldiering one of one type or another, it seems a bit routine. The feeling at 40 is more relaxed than it was at 20. The average age of this squad is probably 20. They are good and know their business. Some of them have been hit while on patrol, so they know the score. You can tell they like seeing an old salt along. It gives them a bit of confidence. So you do not want to fail them if the chips are down. It has been said that the old salt is the anchor on the line and maybe he is. They know and I know that a first sergeant is not supposed to go out on patrols. But it does not happen every day and I think some of them liked it. Thirteen young Marines on patrol and an old salt thinking, hell, these rice paddies smell no different than the ones in Korea. Fast forward. 16 January 1968. Rumor is we may have. We may be hit in Dang area before Tet. Vietnamese New Year. 100% alert. All hands in holes can sleep but ready for action. Fast forward. According to Military Assistance Command Vietnam statistics for 1967 are 87, 534 enemy dead. The total of the enemy dead is the equivalent of more than 114 NVA battalions Americans killed in action. KIA for 1967 or 15,997. It's a different level than I experienced for sure. Fast forward. January 24th January 1968. The old war horse heard the sound of the bugle and trotted off to battle. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon when the word was passed. Reaction squad and tractors down to the the COC bunker. Now draw your ammunition, draw your rations. Ammo radioman and a corpsman. I went topside and talked to one of my office clerks, Sergeant Tidwell, the assistant squad leader. Why don't you go with us, First Sergeant? I sure would like to, but the old man would probably say no. You could check with the captain. He wasn't too happy about me going last time. The old War horse could hear the bugles. He sort of got that old feeling, some of that gung honus. Not wanting to be left in the rear with the gear, he galloped off to see the company commander for permission to go. Can't do it, said the captain. Damn it to hell, why not, Skipper? After some hard talking to the skipper, the skipper said okay, if the EXO approves. The EXO was the battalion executive officer. So off galloped the old War horse again. No, said the major. How could we justify it? Although the answer was no, the bugle could still be heard. But it was no use. First sergeants do not go with the squads on patrol or small sized operations. Besides, the colonel was against was six in the evening. The tracks bellowed a roar with their engines and started through the wire at the back of the CP area. The old War horse could see the reaction squad atop the tracks. Corporal Scott, the special services nco, Corporal Malone, the chaplain's assistant. Corporal Stubbs, who would be going home soon. Sergeants reborn Ort and Tidwell and others. Through the exhaust sand and setting sun, the old War horse sensed another feeling. As the young colts rode off. I damn near cried, he wants to go get some and he can't. And they tell him he can't. Like it's, you know, two tracks going out with whatever 12, 15 Marines. He it's just not justifiable. And you know, he did go out on some patrols. You can go out, you know, like the right time. But the skipper said no. Fast forward the 7th of February 1968. There were two small paper bags on my desk. I knew what they were were before I opened them. The personal effects of the bodies of our two marines killed in action. I opened the first bag. It contained a small religious medallion, insignia of rank, and a cigarette lighter. The lighter still had blood on it. The Marine had been shot three times in the chest. Chris, I yelled, yes, top, clean the blood off this lighter. Can't send it home like that. Chris is a Lance Corporal. Steve Christensen, Boise, Idaho, the company driver, a good Marine. The other bag contained $11 in military script and a religious medal on a chain. One married, one signal. Charlie plays no favorites. Chris, get the jeep. I want to go to the hospital. We have two wounded Marines there, both from the same operation. Four wounded and two dead. That platoon really got hit. We arrived at the hospital and it was like all the others in a war zone. Men sitting around, medics and corpsmen going from place to place, the stretcher bearers waiting for the copters to come in with the medevacs. One right there was fresh. Must have just arrived. The sign on the door said Ward 5A. He's in here. Lance Corporal Eugene Bevel from Texarkana, Arkansas, was wounded in the left hand and below the right eye by shrapnel and small arms fire. The LTV he was riding on was hit while in support of an infantry unit. He saw his buddies get hit. The one with the $11 on my desk was, quote, reaching down to help a wounded grunt when he got hit. Belleville continued the story. I saw him straighten up when he was hit. One of the men grabbed him before he fell off the track. Belleville sat there a minute, quiet. He had that stare many men get in wars when a battle or a fight is still fresh in their minds, remembering what it was like with their buddies dying around them. He had a misty look in his eyes when I left, probably glad it was over for him and yet not wanting to leave his buddies behind. I do not know. I suppose it was a look of unbelief. The ambulance was leaving with a load of cases when I climbed aboard the jeep. Among the fringe benefits of being a first sergeant is the honor of visiting Marines in the hospital, identifying the kias and inventorying personal effects. Someone has to do it. For my kias, it is all over. For the wounded in action, if they're lucky, it's a trip back home. For me, it will probably mean more kiyas and wounded in action and more widows and heartbroken parents. That part of war has never changed. A few days later, 13 February 1968 is customary for the skipper to write a letter of condolence to the family of a Marine killed in action. After the skipper wrote a letter to the parents of one of our kias and the wife of another. I sat down to write one of my own. I had some color Polaroid photographs of the memorial service held for our two kias and thought the parents and wife would like to have them. Dear Mrs. Smith. And Smith is just the fake name. Dear Mrs. Smith. Enclosed are two photographs of the memorial service conducted by our battalion for your husband and another Marine recently killed in action. I know your grief is great at this time, but it may help to know that when your husband was killed, he was trying to help another Marine. He was among Marines from this company providing support to an infantry company in a battle a few miles from here. When your husband was hit, he was reaching down from his LVT to try to pull a rifleman aboard. His LVT had gone in to try and rescue Marines. I thought that you would like to know this. Very sincerely, Jack W. Jonnell, First Sergeant of Marines. And later he received this letter which he published in the book. Dear 1st Sergeant JohnL I've received your letter and pictures, and I will be forever thankful. My husband was a hero and he was a hero to his son. All I knew was that he was killed. I did not know how he died. Now I know he was a hero and always will be to his son. And I. God bless you. Fast forward. 25 February, 1968. I enter the company office and the skipper gives me the scoop. First. It will be the same as last night. 100 alert. No one sleeps. We will go to the wire at 1900 hours and come off at about 0700 tomorrow. So one of the things that I, you know, I'm fast forwarding through a bunch of the book, but they're on a base like a forward operating base, and they're expecting attack. And so the enemy's outside the wire and they have to protect their small forward operating base. So a lot of times, a lot of their duty, even when they're back in base, they're out there, you know, on the line, on the wire, on the perimeter, securing the perimeter. And it's long, miserable nights, night after night. So they're out there on this. Guess I'll go check the line and. And I start for the first hole. It was getting misty now, going to get wet. Tonight the Marines are awake and alert near Bunker three. I meet the skipper. He's out checking the line. Also, it was at bunker three we had two men wounded in December. Takes me about 45 minutes to check the line. On my way back to my Bunker I stop at the mess hall for a cup of coffee. The night cook, Corporal William E. Sterman from Midland, Texas, looks up and greets me. How many gallons of coffee have you made tonight? I ask. About 45 gallons, he replies. That's a lot of coffee. How Many last night? 90 gallons. We may beat it tonight. It's early yet. We drink a lot of coffee to stay awake these nights. Marines come to the galley and get coffee all night. They fill their canteens and take it back for themselves and their buddy in the hole. Midnight, it starts to rain. Three o' clock in the morning. I go check positions. How's it going, Marine? Rough, replies the Marine. But at least it stopped raining. Good Marines work all day and stay up all night. Two, maybe three hours of sleep in the morning and all over again. How many nights will we do this for? Last time it was 10. That's the duty. And again, you know, I'm fast forwarding through a bunch of this stuff. And he goes through some of the monotony of it, some of the fear of it, some of the stress of it. Very, very heavy. And it's just day after day after day. And occasionally, you know, like, they'll do that for 10 days and then they'll get a little bit of security or they'll get intel that, you know, the enemy's standing down. So they'll get a couple good nights of sleep, but. And then on top of that, they're going out on patrol in the day. You know, it's interesting, you know, in, in Vietnam, the VC attacked at night, and the VC owned the night is what they said.