First Firefight
By Carl King
Twelve days in country and counting.
I’ve been assigned to the 1st. Platoon, Hotel Company, 2nd Battalion,
1st. Marines and sent to join them at
Con Thien. I really haven’t had a chance to get to know the troops yet,
but my first impressions are positive.
First Lieutenant C.V. Taylor the Platoon Commander, is a good man
who cares about the troops, and the
squad and team leaders are also good Marines who want to do a good
job. The living conditions are awful,
and everyone is bored, due to no activity, other then standing lines, keeping
watch, and cleaning their rifles.
The supply situation is the worst I have ever seen. Everything they issued
me is
used, torn and in some cases, blood
stained. They issued me a pistol and no magazines for the ammunition
(I
never tried it but I guess you could
fire the 45 Cal. Pistol one shot at a time. I don’t think I would like
doing so
in a fire fight!) They told me I would
get the magazines and anything else I was missing (which was a lot) once
I
got up to Con Thien. Not true.
There is even less available here. I did find two magazines for my
pistol, and
an M16 rifle (with magazines).
At least now I have something to shoot with.
Did I mention that the ride through “Indian
Country” with an empty pistol was exciting?
We got word that we are going out the
next day to act as a blocking force for a larger operation. Everyone
(well, really, it’s only the new men)
are fairly excited about the possibility of making contact with some real
live
NVA. The night is spent briefing the
squads, putting on our camouflage paint, cleaning weapons, and in general
getting ready to move out at dawn.
We leave the compound and start our company-sized
operation with no significant incidents. As we patrol
through the countryside, headed toward
our blocking positions, we note round holes in the ground that go
down at an angle, very smooth on the
sides. They don’t seem to have any bottom to them. Being good
Marines, if we find something we aren’t
sure about, we throw grenades into it, put our fingers in our ears and
wait for the explosion.
We later found out that those deep,
round, smooth holes that went into the ground at an angle had unexploded
500-pound bombs at their bottoms. Who
says the Lord doesn’t take care of dumb Marines? I still have a
vision of us standing there with our
fingers in our ears waiting for the grenade to go off when a 500-pounder
goes off instead. Not a pretty sight!
At any rate, we survived our search
efforts on our movement toward the blocking position and got there
without incident. We immediately set
up our perimeter and began watching for NVA activity. Soon enough
there was some. We spotted what appeared
to be an NVA squad moving through a clearing about 600 meters
from our position. Given that they were
out of rifle range, which should have been our first clue, we decided to
take a platoon-sized unit out to investigate.
First Platoon was chosen.
As we moved out, I pointed out to Lt.
Taylor that we should deploy to a wedge formation and take great care,
as I felt that our spotting them had
been too easy and that we might be being sucked into a trap. He agreed
and we moved the troops into the wedge.
The Lt. was up front near the point and I was in the back bringing
up the rear. Not too long after we moved
through the area where we had spotted the NVA, the point units ran
into some NVA and a firefight started.
The wedge was moved to a platoon on line and I moved forward to
join the LT. He was standing beside
a large tree, which was being bombarded with small arms fire.
Charlie obviously knew where the
CP was located. Generally speaking, all hell was breaking loose.
Lots and
lots of gunfire all up and down the
line. We ordered a cease-fire so that we could find out what was
going on,
and except for the right-hand flank,
it got quiet. On that flank the shooting continued, so I went to
see what
was up.
When I got to the squad, I found that
they were still engaged and a couple of men were hit. There was quite
a
bit of shooting going on, and it was
hard to determine just what was what. I saw one man down and moved
toward him when an NVA jumped up and
started running away from me. I fired about 15 rounds at him
without any noticeable change in his
behavior. I later decided that either I had missed him (something
about
being so excited that I forgot to aim)
or that he was one tough man. Anyway, I got to the Marine and he was hit
but OK. Mike Donavan was his name,
a fine Marine who came back to the unit to fight some more.
I noticed that the grenadier was pinned
down and needed some fire support to get out of the spot he was in.
Having already proven myself to be a
fine shot, I decided to move forward and help him and started looking for
cover to run to. I spotted a very
small tree. I thought, “That’s too small to protect you,” but ran
to it anyway.
And, for a while the grenadier would
shoot a round, duck, and Charlie would shoot the ground around him.
While they were shooting at him, I would
shoot at them. Great game that they soon tired of, so they shot me
(in the right calf). I knew that
darn tree was too small. Given that I was in an exposed position, I would
not let
anyone come get me, so I put a bandage
on my leg and had the troops lay down a base of fire so I could get
my butt out of there.
At about this time, the LT. got word
to break contact and to pull back to the company perimeter. He called in
mortar fire on the NVA that weren’t
in our lines in order to distract them long enough for us to break contact
and get some distance between us and
them. Now, I got to tell you, that’s it is much easier said than done to
break contact. It is a lot like having
a Tiger by the tail and then letting go. I thought about trying to
tell Charlie
that it had all been a mistake, we were
going home now, thanks for the fun time. But, they weren’t really
in the
mood to listen, so we shot our way out.
Good thing we left when we did.
They were in the process of surrounding us, so we were reminded of what
old Chesty Puller said at the Chosin
Reservoir in Korea, “They are on our right, they are on our left, they
are to
our front and they are to our rear.
They can’t get away now.”
The grenadier and I brought up the rear,
shooting at anything that moved and keeping Charlie off our butts.
We got back to the company lines without
any major incidents, and I got treated by our friendly platoon
Corpsman. Funny how adrenaline works.
While I was in the fray, my wound was not an issue. I ran and fell
and ran and fell, keeping the rear clear
for over 600 meters, yet once I was “safe,” I could not walk, and had to
be carried to the medevac chopper.
Thirteen days in the country and already hit. Was that a bad sign
or
what?
The medevac was fast and efficient.
Great guys those medevac folks! They took me to Dong Ha for my initial
treatment. What a joyful process.
The place was full of Marines who had been hit elsewhere in the
country—many were in much worse shape
than I was.
Interesting process the forward medical
treatment units have. Everyone is put on stretchers and then the
stretchers are put on sawhorses.
Doctors come by and decide “too serious, probably won’t make it, put him
aside”, or “not too serious, put him
aside.” I was “not too serious, put him aside”, and aside I went
for hours
on my stretcher—feeling very sorry for
myself. You know, wounded warrior and no one cares. At one
point I
got to feeling so sorry for myself that
I actually started going into shock—pale, cool and sweaty. Realizing
it (I
used to teach first aid), I talked myself
out of it and got a Corpsman’s attention so I could be treated. They
took me to an X-ray room where a Corpsman
told them to “put the project on the table”. I informed him I
was not a project but a Marine and wanted
to be treated like one. I think I was getting a little short with
people.
They X-rayed me and took me to the wound
debrising room. (Probably not called that but that’s what was
done there; they cut all the meat away
from the entrance and exit holes that might have been impacted by the
shock waves of the projectile striking
the body.) They put me on the floor to wait my turn for the cutting
game.
Great place to wait. You get to
see the whole process being done on other people before they do it to you.
Anyway, after they cut and bandaged
my leg, they put me in a wheelchair, pushed me out in the hallway and left
me. By this time, I’m tired (up
since 0430 and it’s 1900 at night), I’m hungry, (haven’t eaten since
breakfast,
and oh, for some more tasty C-rations),
and I’m mad at the world in general and Vietnam in particular so I
decided to manage myself and quit waiting
for someone else to take care of me. What a concept! I found
the
mess hall, got myself fed, found a rack
and almost got in it when they decided that they needed to move anyone
they could to make room for more wounded
coming in.
So, onto C-130’s we went and off to an
Air Force Hospital in DaNang. We arrived at some ungodly hour
–0200-0300, who knows or cares—at a
very neat, clean and orderly ward, except now we’re mixed with
Army troops being treated by Air Force
medics.
Soon after first light, they bring us
breakfast and serve everyone but a solider in the rack beside me who had
been gut shot and was not supposed to
take anything by mouth. He kept begging for some of my food and my
drink. I would not give it to
him, so he started harassing a Corpsman who was swabbing the deck for
something to drink. At first,
the Corpsman said no, but gave in and got the guy some water. Within
a few
minutes, the soldier was throwing up
and going into convulsions. They tried to save him but could not.
Just like
in the movies: mouth-to-mouth, electric
shock, shots, prayer, etc. Only none of it worked! He died!
A waste.
God, what a waste!
We were taken out of Da Nang that day
and flown to Cam Ranh Bay, another Air Force hospital, but way to
the rear. (If there was such a thing
in Vietnam.) Here the treatment was consistent and professional.
Shots
every day, three times a day, wounds
cleaned out twice a day. Nothing like having your wound cleaned out.
Something you really look forward to.
You know, rip the tape off the skin and pour something into the wound
that burns like hell.
There was one soldier in particular that
we all enjoyed watching his wound cleaned out. Seems that he got
shot
through and through in the ass.
What this means is that the bullet went in his ass and out his ass, leaving
a neat
little tunnel, I think it was the debrising
that made it neat, so he got the pleasure of having the demon liquid
poured into the tunnel and cotton swabs
run through it twice a day. Great fun for us, not much fun for him.
If it
weren’t for the cleaning part, I think
a guy could get into doing a tour in the hospital. Clean sheets,
hot food,
showers, female nurses, and the Red
Cross to play bingo with.
After a couple of weeks at Cam Ranh Bay,
a bunch of us were transferred to Japan. Not so much because
our wounds were bad as because the hospitals
in country were filling up so fast that they had to keep moving
those they could further and further
to the rear, and Japan was really in the rear area as far as Vietnam was
concerned.
I went to another Air Force hospital
in Tachikawa Japan. Talk about clean and neat! Really good food,
lots of
pretty nurses and Red Cross workers
for bingo. I do have one complaint though. Every morning at 0600,
we
had to get out of our beds and remake
them so that we could get right back in them. Go figure!
After several weeks in Japan, I was declared
fit for duty and sent back to Okinawa; and on my way back to
good old 2/1 in Vietnam, only now they
were on their way to Khe Sanh where I would join them.
Something I would like to say about my
first tour in the combat treatment assembly line: I never met a
Corpsman or nurse that deep down inside
didn’t really care about the troops he or she was taking care of.
Even the one that gave the kid a drink.
Maybe he cared too much to be a hard ass when he needed to be.
I watched Corpsmen and nurses cry
when men died, and I watched Corpsmen get killed trying to get to
wounded Marines. I saw them in
utter frustration at having to deal with all the WIA, but deal with them
they
did. I will never meet a Corpsman
that I don’t say thanks to for the work he did. They were professional
and
saved our butts when they could.
Thank God for them!
The troops, both Marines and soldiers,
I met in the hospitals were simply great. Proud to be serving their
country, even the “draftees”, and ready
to get back into the fray. I was and am truly proud to be an American
and to have had the opportunity to meet
and serve with such fine men!
First of a series of excellent stories and excitement by Carl E. King,
describing his true action historic situations that played a role in his
life during 1968.
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
