Solomon came in and yelled, “Listen up!! We’re point squad on this one, we’re moving out of the back gate, and swinging south west toward Cam Sa One”. Cam Sa One was, a village of Vietnamese friendless, that were not at all friendly to Americans. It was usually their intelligence that warned Charlie of the direction of our movement and our route so he could scurry ahead and set up an ambush or plant booby traps for us to walk into. There were not many places we could be going once outside the compound; the only question was what route would we take to get there. Charley knew our AO’s better than we did and our most likely direction of movement. It only took us a month or so before we figured that one out. Unfortunately, we took casualties in the process. 

“Fred you’re point man, Jim will be on the radio, Belt you follow Lynch and keep your eyes open for an ambush, Lynch you look for booby traps, I’ll be behind Jim.  “Jay you follow me with the blooper, Bowman and Hink you’ll be tail end. Third squad with the CP will be behind Hink and second squad bringing up the rear. We’ll have two gun teams with us, the Lt. wants them at the front and rear of third squad, so no bitching about it, that’s the Lt.’s prerogative and that’s that. No before you ask we won’t have 60 mm mortars with us on this one as were only one platoon.  Now make sure you got all your equipment and form up outside the hooch”.
 

It was mid-afternoon when we pulled out, it’s kind a like waiting in line for the movies after they open the doors, the point man leads off through our wire parameter and out in front of the berm. It’s relatively safe until most of the platoon is strung out zig zagging its way through the wire. In the early stages of leaving the compound there are not enough men in the killing zone for Charley to bother with.  But once most of us are outside the compound but still strung out and picking our way through the wire, we become a great target! So the further we get outside the compound, the more we are waiting to hear gunfire from the tree line.  The further out we get the quieter everyone gets, the more apprehensive we get and the more we sweat.  You can hear a pin drop and see the anxiety on the faces of everyone as they make it through the wire out to the openness in front of the Berm. Here you could hit booby-traps, or catch a round in the temple. They say you never hear the one that gets you and it’s got to be true. The velocity of the bullet and speed travel much faster than sound so the bullet as it strikes you before the sound catches up, and if it’s a killing shot… well, you get the idea.

“Lynch stay further away from the village” Solomon yells up to him.  Fred moves away from the village as he is told. Quite isn’t the most essential thing at this point.  Charley knows where we are and half the platoon is still making it through the wire or still back in Battalion waiting to still go out. So far, so good I’m thinking as this is the point where all hell breaks loose, but still the silence of the country side and just the muffled sounds of the equipment your carrying can be heard. Having equipment that rattles is a definite NO, NO. A major rule is to make sure that you don’t make noise when you walk.  Not an easy task given all the stuff we carry but one worth working on.  Nothing like a night patrol with some one sounding like he has a cowbell on to get everyone’s attention!

As we cleared the backside of the Village, the last of the platoon was just coming out of the compound. One thing we did well was stay spread out.  Bunching up was an invitation to be shot at or to have a command controlled booby trap set off.  If we bunched up, we made a target worth going after.  If we were spread out, they had to think about the risk of giving themselves away for a shot at one man.  And then there was always SSgt. King there to remind us to spread out. Let’s just say that he was a fanatic about it.  The soil was extremely sandy and the landscape consisted of flat land spotted with rice paddies and some underbrush in the open areas. Did I mention how much you NEVER wanted to get hit in a rice patty?  Talk about infection!! Anyway, the villages usually had a tree line around them and most of the time the trees were pretty thick.  It was a lot different up North where the steep hills, narrow paths and heavy brush (some would say jungle) forced you to keep closer to each other so as not to loose sight of the man in front of you; which could cause the Company to get separated, making a great target for the NVA. Also, it was easier for the NVA to spring a more effective ambush as they could set up in the high ground across a river or ravine that you might be patrolling along. Using the ravines as patrol routes was a trip.  While it was quieter than cutting through the brush (jungle), it was a known route (easy for the NVA to figure where you would be) and then there were the leeches. One CAN NOT get use to leeches.  And let’s not forget the rain. During the monsoon season, the ravines could become a rushing river, in only a minute or two. Let’s just say that when it rained, it really rained!  We digress.  Back to the patrol.

“Halt the column” came the word up from behind. At that point everyone gets down on one knee facing out in opposite directions, and acts alert. Since we never knew where enemy fire might come from, we always had to cover ourselves for a full 360 degrees. We’d been halted because we were getting too spread out. The halt was used to allow men to get their proper position so once the word came up to halt, everyone would move to the distance he was suppose to be from the man in front of him and then really halt. If the unit was too spread out it could not respond to an ambush effectively and if it was bunched up it was a great target for a mortar attack.  I hated mortar attacks, all you can do is get your body as close to the ground as possible and pray one didn’t blow the hell out of you. You couldn’t shoot back the mortar crews; they were out of sight and out of range for our rifles. Have you ever tried to shoot what you can’t see? A waste of ammo. You’d lay there, face pinned deeper and deeper in the sand while you listened to these terrifying explosions all around you. Sometimes men would scream from getting hit, yet you were helpless to help them or to stop the mortars. If someone near you got hit it was not just the corpsman’s job to get to him, but yours too, especially if it was the corpsman who got hit.  Some times you had to ride out the attack before you could get to the wounded because there were just too many rounds coming in.  Sometimes you could move to them and start providing help before the firing stopped.  One thing for sure, it was hardest to just lie there when you knew one of your own had been hit. To jump up and run to their aid increased your chances of getting hit greatly; but you did it anyway.

“Move it out Alpha, off and on” we get up and start moving again.  Always at a slow pace, almost a snails crawl. We could only move as fast as the point man that had to watch for booby traps while his back up man was on the alert for ambushes.  The problem here was that the point man is looking for booby-traps and his back up is looking for ambushes.  This means that the backup can’t watch where the point man has walked which means that there is a very good chance that he will trip a booby-trap taking out himself and the point man.  The bobby-traps in this area were usually either a well-hidden trip wire that ran to an explosive device or small cleverly concealed and covered holes about 2 feet by 2 1/2 feet and two to three feet deep. Across the hole were two wires, almost “V” shaped attached to a pull friction fuse on a buried explosive (usually a 105 mm. round 0r larger). Hit one of those suckers and you’d never find the point man, and only pieces of the back up man while the third man may take shrapnel or get blown down by the concussion. These patrols were no Sunday afternoon walk in the park.

We’d traveled about 1500 meters, a click and a half when we got to word passed up to hold up again. At this point everyone just plopped down in a sitting position resting on our packs; we were exhausted, sweaty, thirsty, and hot as hell. “Stay alert” Solomon would growl, “Jim give me the net, the radio, so I can see what’s causing the hold up this time”. Solomon contacted one actual, (the call sign for the Platoon Commander). “One actual, what’s the hold up here, we're pretty exposed out in the open up here”. There was some noise from the radio, and then Solomon turned and said in a disgusted tone, “we’re taking five, as the rear is too spread out again, don’t go getting to comfortable. Lynch, let me see if you got us where I think we’re suppose to be on the map”. Lynch grunted while lifting himself to his feet and walking toward Solomon. “Crouch down Solomon snarled, don’t give Charlie an easy target”. 

While Lynch went over the map with Solomon, the rest of us tried hard to keep from dozing off. We carried heavy packs, probably 60 pounds and that didn’t count:  four bandoleers of magazines; each holding eight magazines, plus laaws, claymore mines, C-4, starter round, machine gun rounds, four canteens of water, and a poncho liner if you were fortunate to have one.  A poncho liner was soft like silk material, extremely light, dried super fast when wet and kept you warm as hell as night even when it was wet. To me the best invention in sleeping gear they ever developed, as it made no noise no matter how you handled it. 

We didn’t talk while sitting there, Solomon prohibited it; we might wrestle around in the sand shifting all the weight of the pack and extra ammo to reach your canteen for a warm drink of water.   A call came over the radio, and then Solomon yelled out “move it out”. God getting up was a killer, all my muscles ached, and joints cracked like an old man, as I maneuvered myself to my feet without falling over from all the weight I carried on a typical patrol.

The area we were moving in was very sandy. It was like walking in deep sand at the beach back home. Except that I hardly ever wore a 60-pound pack on the beach at home. Come to think of it, I don’t recall ever going to the beach with a rifle and four bandoleers of ammo. Every step was an effort the old calves really burned. Nothing was ever easy about patrols, either we were climbing slick muddied mountains, one step up slide back two, crossing rivers, some so deep I would be up to my noise in water. I’d wonder if I was going to go over my head and drown in the current. If we weren’t in rivers, we might be in rice patties. Now that was real fun! Warm water and gooey mud that tried to pull my boots off with every step I took and the God Awful smell of the goo that stuck to everything it touched. Rice patties really presented a problem for us.  They were flat and wide open.  Anytime we were in them, we were great targets for snipers. If we tried to walk on the dikes and not through the water filled “ponds” that the rice grew in, we had to worry about booby-traps. So, we tended to wade through the darn things praying that we did not come under fire and have to flop down in the filthy, slimy water.  And God forbid that we get hit while in a patty. One other patrol delight was going through hedgerows. These were rows of hedges that separated villages and different properties. The problem was that Charley loved to bobby-trap them and it was very very hard to find the bobby-traps.  What we tended to do was go through the same place the guy in front of us went through. My definition of stark fear was not seeing where the guy in front of me went through and having to just bust through a new place on my own.  And, let’s not forget the bugs. They were a bitch, biting any exposed areas, buzzing at your face and getting in the cuts that you always had on your face and your arms. Sometimes there would be hundreds of flies, I hate files, even today, I’m obsessed; when I see one, I kill it. 
Patrols seemed endless.  I was always thinking when were we going to get wherever the Hell we were going. I hated that, as far as we knew, we could be humping all day and night before we’d arrive at our new CP area.

When I wasn’t swatting at the bugs, sliding in the mud, crossing rivers, trudging through rice patties, busting through hedge rows and watching for bobby-traps, I would day dream about being back home, hanging out on the block, or with my girl friend. 
 
 

It was nearing dusk and the order came over the radio to find a place to set in. Finally, thank God, we could drop our packs and eat something. “Team leaders have your men probe the areas: the Boss said. “We will set in here for the night. “There are bound to be some mines or booby-traps, I don’t want any missed”. We all dropped where we were while the point men dropped their packs and started to probe the area. We wrestled out of our packs. What a relief! The weight lifted from raw shoulders, and aching backs, it was almost rejuvenating. We were cover in sweat. So much so it appeared we’d been swimming in our clothes.  A cool breeze ushering in the evening came up, and as it blew on our wet utilities it actually made us feel cold.  It was a good cold.  It was refreshing. Nothing-good last long in country. Smack, damn, mosquitoes checked in for the evening shift and in a few minutes we’d be covered with them. It was time to role down our sleeves and button our top buttons and to try to keep expose skin to an absolute minimum.  Mosquitoes were a real problem. They just swarmed over us and would get at any exposed skin.  They sang in our ears and sucked our blood.  Their stings burned like hell and there was nothing we could do about it.  When on ambush, we couldn’t wear any repellant because Charley could smell it and would know where you were.  We couldn’t swat the damn things because the movement could give our positions away. 

“Hingston”, Bowman my team leader said, “watch my gear while I go over to those trees for a moment”. “Bowman”, Fred yells to him, “I haven’t probed that area yet you’d better wait till I’m done”. “I know what the hell I’m doing. Now you do your”…. BOOM!!!  BOOBY TRAPS! BOOBY-TRAPS! Was the yell, as Fred and Belt were thrown to the ground by the force of the explosion. I looked up in the air and could see this role of toilet paper twenty to thirty feet high coming back down. “BOWMAN” Solomon screamed and stared running towards Bowman.  He tripped and fell on a booby-trap that didn’t go off.  Jumping up, he headed for Bowman once again and once again he tripped over another bobby-trap that also failed to explode. Belt was the first one to Bowman. You’ll be all right, you’re going home. The boss yelled out “nobody move, freeze and face out to cover any sniper attacks. Get this area probed! Call for a medevac now. Tell them it’s priority, we have one down from a booby trap”. 

“Solomon! Solomon!” The Platoon sergeant yelled as Solomon stared motionless at Bowman’s body being wrapped in a poncho. “SOLOMON!” Still no responses. “Jay, get the men formed up and get someone to put Bowman on the chopper when it lands. That sniper waiting for the chopper to come in before he’ll open up at it, and I want that bastards head before I hear the echo of his first round.” “Aye, Aye,” Boss was Jay’s reply. A few of us got what was left of Bowman’s body ready for the incoming chopper.  What a truly a horrible way to go! Bowman’s death shook us all up for some time, but it also made us that more determined than ever to blast the shit out of every NVA and VC we could find.

As the chopper was being guided in, sure as hell, the sniper opened up on it, and everyone blasted away at him. I was one of the ones carrying Bowman’s body to the chopper and that sniper was getting too close to us for comfort. One of the Marines dropped like a rock a few feet from the chopper. I thought for sure the sniper got him, but running in knee-deep rice paddy water is no easy feat, he had only tripped. He quickly recovered and we got Bowman’s body on the chopper and watched it take off like a rocket to the moon still being hit with small arms fire.

Bowman, my team leader since I joined Hotel Co. 1st Platoon, taught me a lot of survival techniques that probably kept me alive. He wasn’t everyone’s best friend.  He rode us hard and we didn’t always appreciate it. But he was a damn good grunt! One you could count on when you needed him. He was a good man who died a horrible death. 

That night Fred and I were in the same hole, not far from where Bowman got it. Out in front of us was a village, a couple of hundred meters from us. 

Fred eventually fell asleep, yet it was a good hour or so before the dogs left. The whole area smelled like death, all of us that had been near Bowman had some of his blood on us, and it left that metallic silvery rotted smell deep in your nostrils. You’d want to puke, but that wouldn’t change anything, only time or the next stream or river we’d cross would help eliminate the odor. I covered myself with my poncho liner, reached for a cigarette and pulled out my lighter. Smoking was forbidden at night, as any sign of the cigarette could be seen a long way off. We had a system though, you’d put your hand inside and under your shirt, shift your hand up to the open collar part, than turn your back, and get low in your hole while you covered yourself with the poncho liners. Once you figured you were well covered and couldn’t be seen, you’d light the cigarette as fast as you could, snap the lighter shut, Zippo Lighter of course, and than covered like a mummy in your poncho liner with only your eyes exposed, take a drag of the cigarette and slowly let the smoke out as you exhaled. The last thing you’d want to do is send out a huge puff of smoke, Charley could smell that too and home in on you. You were especially careful to cup your hand around the cigarette as well, and just let the hot ashes fall as they may. When it was almost gone, you’d duck down into the hole again and put it out in the sand or mud. 

Watches went very slowly and smoking a cigarette helped you pass the time and keep some of the mosquitoes from eating you alive. Usually a watch wasn’t longer than two hours, because of exhaustion from humping all over Gods creation with 80 lb., of gear had its way of taking its toll on you, not to mention the heat. Two man positions were rough as you would finally get to sleep and you’d be shaken awake for your watch again. Being tired and exhausted was an everyday experience. The only time you’d really seem to come to life was when they ambushed or out right attacked you. The adrenaline would pump like a Banshee through you in an instant, and all tiredness and fatigue would instantly be gone. Somehow watching Bowman go through what he did was going to make for an especially long night.  I still couldn’t get the sight or sounds he made out of my mind. Booby-traps of this nature were something I don’t think any of us ever experienced before. It gave you an awareness of just how dangerous just walking around could be without the additional threat of being ambushed.

Fred had the last watch, so he woke me as the sun was greeting us with a brand new day. We’d usually grab a can of C-Rations and eat really quickly, as we’d all be waiting to hear the sound of Saddle up at any time once the sun was up. Where we were going, we had no idea, how long out was also a puzzle. A lot of times you wouldn’t know when it was over till you’d see the Battalion Area again. 

Jay came by our position and informed us that we were going to be saddling up in the next half hour or so. This was new to us, as nobody, except Jay, when we were on patrols up North with him ever kept us informed. We had forgotten that Jay had taken over for Solomon. Solomon was in bad shape still and was being taken in to the rear. Bowman’s death was more than he could handle as they were close and had been together for quite a while. 

“Fred, where’s your map and compass”, Jay asked. “Come over here Bobby, I want you both to know what today’s activities are and where we’ll be going and what patrol route we have. Bobby I want you to scrounge up a map and compass some how, I want everyone in this team to have them. I expect each of you to know where we are and where we are supposed to be at all times. Here are a list if frequencies for the radio, memorize them and destroy this list. When I ask you at any time for these frequencies I want you to be able to rattle them off.  I want you to know them as well as you know your name or service number. Got that?” Yeah sure we said, I guess now things are going to really change around here now for us. “ Bobby I want you walking back-up behind Fred today, you know the routine, just like we did it up North OK”. Yeah no problem I said. I was sick of walking tail end Charley; back up was a lot more exciting, especially when we were the lead squad. Both Fred and I had been trained by Jay up North, he was fair, partial to know one, and no one messed with his men, no one... 

Some how a new cohesiveness just formed in a matter of minutes. It was like pressure had been instantly removed. Solomon was a damn good squad leader, but not one for providing many details. We pretty much just followed the guy in front and waited for instructions.  Jay would keep us informed as he could but he didn’t know much either. With Bowman gone, learning by being yelled at was over. In fairness to Bowman, he had probably learned to lead from a yeller and thought that was the way it was done. Jay was quiet, never raised his voice, would go over things as many times as it took for you to know it, and you’d know it when he was done. God help you if you or somebody forgot without asking him to show you again, as he’d look at you, never raise his voice, and say I want you out of my F_ _ _ _ _ _ Squad! That would be all it took too.
Jay trained a lot of guys that weren’t with us anymore, not that they screwed up, he just was assigned to train a lot of people, especially new ones, and we were also expected to train them as well in every area of knowledge we knew. Fred and I would train people in demolition as we had been the only two in our company who had been to school for it. We also trained people to walk point, use a radio, and operate a compass and map. Everything we knew. Once trained they’d go into other outfits in the platoon, and we’d get new guys to train again. We did a lot of training, but the platoon was really coming together as an incredible awesome unit.

Our Company Commander (Capt. Jones and our Platoon Sergeant (SSgt. King) were BIG on training.  They both knew how fast leaders could be taken out in a firefight and how often PFCs would be leading Squads.  It was a high priority for them to have everyone trained to be ready to take over the job two levels up. Capt. Jones was a true field commander.  It wasn’t uncommon to be out in the middle of nowhere and run into him out there on a patrol with another unit. He wasn’t one to stay in the rear when he could be out in the bush, and that we all tremendously respected him for. When the shit hit the fan, he, the Skipper wasn’t far away or was on top of things on the radio with you. I don’t know what rattled him, because what ever it was, we never saw it. There were times artillery falling would be falling all around us and if you looked up, you’d see him up giving orders or calling in an air strike. Our platoon at this point was really together and something was special about it, exactly what I can’t say, but you could actually feel it.

Continued in a weeks time or so by Bobby Hingston and Carl E. King.