19 May ‘68
Hotel was operating a company-sized patrol outside of Khe Sanh and had
set up on Hill 471, which overlooked the MSR between Route 9 and Khe Sanh
base.
We had spent the day checking out bunkers
and tunnels in and around Khe Sanh village, without any enemy contact.
We did discover one very important aspect of searching a bunker.
If you throw a grenade in it, the dust never settles, at least not in time
to allow for any kind of orderly search process, so we opted to search
each bunker without the aid of the trusty grenade toss. Needless
to say, there are not a lot of things that are more exciting than climbing
down into a black hole and having to sit there until your eyes adjust to
the darkness, if they ever do. Yes, indeed, nothing like searching
a dark bunker to give one a true appreciation for electric lightening and
young Marine privates.
The night was spent on Hill 471 without incident,
and the morning started out quiet enough—until the road-clearing detail
left Khe Sanh combat base, sweeping the MSR to route 9. It seems
that during the night an NVA company had moved into the area between 471
and the MSR, had dug fighting holes, trenches, etc., and set up a very
nice ambush for the unsuspecting platoon doing a business-as-usual road
sweep. Except this time, it would not be business as usual.
My facts here may be off, but this is what
I remember from my personal observation and from stories related to me
about that day.
The firefight started with a sapper team knocking
out the lead tank with an RPG. The second tank pulled up beside the
first tank and got hit also. At this point, things were moving pretty
fast. The infantry platoon moved into formation and took off after
the sappers, only to run into a well dug-in NVA company. Needless
to say, all hell broke loose!
We were not engaged in the fray, but, given
that we were between the engaged units and the DMZ, we were in an excellent
position to act as a blocking force should the NVA try to reinforce or
to retreat. So, we settled in and listened to the action on the radios.
More units were committed, artillery
and air were called in, and in general, the NVA had the crap pounded out
of them. Most of them fought well and died in their positions.
However, a few tried to break out of the fray, which is where we got to
play.
We spotted a small group of NVA moving away
from the action and got our forward observer to call in some artillery
fire on them, which is where our FO got his name: Two-for-Them-One-for-US.
He did a great job of calling in the spotting rounds to zero in on the
target and calling for his fire-for-effect. We, the command group,
were standing there, watching for the rounds to land, when two rounds landed
on the NVA and one round landed about 50 yards (seemed like one yard) behind
us; at first we thought the NVA were shelling us, then we figured
out that it was only us shelling us, so we got it stopped. But, not
before we all said a few things to old Two-for-Them-One-for Us.
Not too long after this incident, I decided
I should check the troops, so I started checking the line. As I moved
from one position to the next, I spotted four NVA coming toward me.
(which just happened to be outside our lines) They had not spotted
me but had passed the position I was headed toward. At first, I thought
they were our guys (oh, maybe for two seconds I thought that), then I realized
they weren’t and did a quick inventory of my options: take on four NVA
at close range (25 yards) with my trusty .45-cal, pistol, fall and play
dead, surrender, turn and run like hell, or scream for my mother.
I was reaching for my .45 when the shooting
started. I thought they had fired on me, but my guys had spotted
them—and not knowing I was out there, took them on. Thinking I had
four NVA firing at me and my trusty pistol still in its holster, I did
a 180-degree turn and ran for the nearest hole, which turned out to be
a medium-sized bomb crater, 20 feet across by ten feet deep. Reaching
it on the fly, I did an ass-over-tea-kettle dive for the bottom, got my
pistol out and started watching for them to come after me. One poked
his head over the edge, and I did a quick shot at him, then it got very
quiet—you know how it feels, one minute all hell is breaking loose, then
nothing. The nothing is a lot harder to take.
At any rate, I decided that I was truly screwed—outside
my own line, in a large hole in the ground with NVA being the only ones
who knew I was there. It didn’t take long for me to decide that they
were going to throw a grenade in the hole with me. Oh gosh!
I thought. I’ve got to get the hell out of here. But how?
If I come out, my own troops may shoot me, thinking I’m an NVA attacking
the lines. If I stay here I’m done for; if I go out there, I’m done
for too. Choose! Better to be shot doing something than sitting
on my butt. So, I started yelling like hell that here I come-don’t
shoot-oh, please don’t shoot!
I got our of the crater and set some sort
of world record running the short distance to our lines, and did a great
imitation of a tuck-and-roll landing once inside the lines. God,
how great friendly troops look, even when they are laughing at you.
Once I could breathe again, we put together
a search team and started looking for the NVA. Finding only one,
what appeared to be a 12-year old boy in full uniform, no weapon (he had
been an ammunition carrier), we turned him over to counter-intelligence
(some thought we should have killed him) and went back to our blocking
positions.
While I was playing hide-and-seek with my
NVA buddies, the troops engaged on the MSR had pretty well kicked butt—killing
most of the NVA and chasing off the rest. The ones that were killed
were left in their holes, much to the dismay of everyone who drew road
sweep duty after that. Nothing like stepping through a bush and seeing
an NVA lying there with his legs crossed, his pith helmet over his eyes
and a newspaper lying on his chest. Was our sense of humor sick?
Shortly after this, I started carrying a shotgun!
ALWAYS! Like most lessons I have learned in life, I learned this
one the hard way: pistols don’t do well against groups of men armed
with automatic weapons.
Written By: Carl E. King
This story originally appeared in We Remember.
A book of stories written by the men who served in the 2nd Bn 1st Marines,
1st Marine Division during Vietnam. It was compiled and edited by
David and Marian Novak who took the stories anyway they could get them
(hand written, typed, taped or by telephone) and put them in a logical
order. This is a book well worth having. Leatherneck Cottage Press, Leatherneck
Cottage, Rockbridge Baths, VA 24473
