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In February 1970, I went to Vietnam as a US Marine Infantryman (a "grunt"). On the TWA flight over, we joked and were fairly "cocky". I thought (and I think most of the others thought) that I would most likely be fine. That it was the "other guy" who would be killed. I also naively believed that small arms fire would be our greatest threat. Anyway, when the jet was dropping down to the runway at Danang, the plane became silent and the reality of the situation somewhat hit home.
We boarded a flatbed tractor trailer for the ride to the 5th Marine Regiment which was about 20 miles southeast of Danang at An Hoa. This truck was part of a large "convoy" which went to An Hoa every day. The road would be swept for mines at the front of this convoy and needless to say, the 20 miles took quite a while.
At An Hoa I was finally issued my rifle and sent out to my Company (H Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, or, as called in the jargon: Hotel-2-5). One of the first days I was with my Company I met a Sargent who had been "in-country" nine months. He was shaking like a leaf. I wondered whether I would be that nervous after I had been there nine months? Little did I realize then that the odds of me making it nine months were virtually nil.
I was in the Company Commander's CP for a few days after arrival. This area was only about 1/2 mile down the road from an ARVN (Army of Republic of Vietnam) fort. This was a log fort which looked like something out the American West of a century ago. One night the ARVN started shooting in our direction. Bullets (tracers) were flying all around. I was in a bunker with Dennis Duzinski. We were looking out a single hole when a bullet came through and hit the dirt behind us, right between our heads. Bruce Campbell was tired and decided he did not want to get up to get into the bunker. He laid on the ground throughout the "battle". After a few minutes, the firing stopped.
Unfortunately, I cannot remember the names of any of my platoon members other than two individuals which I was with most of the time. Bruce Campbell from Michigan and Dennis Duzinski from Chicago. Bruce was in my boot camp platoon and Dennis was in the same series, so we went to Vietnam together.
Juan Bez was a squad leader for another squad.
During the first several weeks in Vietnam, my Company was "road security" on this previously mentioned road. What that meant was that the company was spread across several miles. Each Platoon had a CP with razor wire. Each squad would sleep in the CP usually one or two of every three nights. Every third night you would go out on an ambush. One of six nights you would go out on a (very scary) "three man listening post". During the days we would either be on a squad patrol, or a "looking post".
Every two to three days someone would set off a land mine, or what we called "a booby trap". These were usually a mortar round or artillery round that was a "dud" when initially fired. It was then found by the VC and "booby trapped". These were set all over and we never walked or went anywhere unless we had to. The least injury was generally a leg blown off.
One day my platoon was sitting on one side of the "road" from Danang to An Hoa and three Marines from another squad were sitting on the other side of the road in a "Observation Post" (OP). All of a sudden there was a huge explosion behind me. I turned around and the dirt was probably 100' in the air. Two of the three were unbelievably not injured but the third did not have a piece of skin left on his body. There were pieces of flesh spread all over the area. The largest piece was his skull and chest cavity which probably weighed about 25 pounds. We wrapped him in his poncho and I thought to myself "In just a split second he went from being a breathing, thinking living person to this chunk of meat which is no longer identifiable."
I remember we had three tanks assigned to us for a few days. We were on a platoon patrol one afternoon when we arrived at a small river and had to get across. Two tanks made it but the third one became stuck in the mud. We had to wait several hours while a very large "wrecker" tank came out and pulled this tank out of the river. When we finally left the river it was getting dark, and darkness comes very fast this close to the equator. We were walking in the deep ruts left in the mud as these tanks drove. Someone in my squad thought they saw an explosion on the mountain range to our left. Within a few seconds a mortar exploded right between the tank tracks. We dropped and watched the mountain to try and determine where this mortar had been fired. Another one went off and we all, including the tanks, fired at the mountainside. We continued a steady barrage on the mountainside for probably 5 minutes. By this time it was totally dark. The word was given to continue moving. I was almost across a knee deep pond when there was an explosion behind me and water flew over my head, knocking me down. I asked Campbell, who was behind me, if he was all right. He said he was, but that he did not know if anyone was between us. There was enough light now from the moon that we could see a little. We walked toward each other and found a man floating face up in the water. His clothing was blown off and we discovered that his body from his waist line down was "gone". His right hand was gone and the bone was sticking out from his elbow looking eerily like a chicken drumstick. He was not conscious. However, he was still breathing. We wondered if we should try to do something like put on a tourniquet. However, we couldn't see how we could possibly put on a tourniquet without doing him even more damage. Within probably thirty seconds he was dead. We had nine of our 25 people injured and riding on the tanks as we ran in the tank tracks between the tanks. Luckily, we hit no booby traps on our three mile run back to the platoon CP.
One day we were on a patrol when we took small arms fire from an "island" in a swamp with foot deep water. The order was given for my squad to attack the island. We began getting up and running 50' or so and then dropping to provide cover for the others to move up. It was exhausting work due to the water and the tall interwoven grass. Duzinski was carrying probably 50 pounds plus, of rounds for his grenade launcher. He was eventually too exhausted to keep going down and getting up, so he just got up and started walking toward the island. Seeing that, the rest of us were exhausted enough that we also just stood up and walked to the island firing all the way. The resistance ceased when we arrived at the edge. We were then ordered back and jets came in to bomb the area. The two jets would fly low over the island, drop their bombs, come back up and perform a roll for us. They then repeated this. On one of the rolls, one of the jets appeared to loose control and while he was upside down he began heading straight for the ground. He recovered very rapidly, but neither of the jets did any more rolling that day. Incidentally, I saw one of the bombs dropped did not detonate. I believe these were 500 pound bombs and I would assume that the VC found this and made a "booby trap".
One night my platoon was set up on top of a hill. Dennis, Bruce and I were all together in one area of the hill. During Dennis' watch, I was awakened by a single shot fired obviously very closely. It turned out that Dennis was pulling the hammer back on his .45 and it fired. Luckily, putting a round between his feet.
I kept track of my platoon's casualty rate in March 1970. The platoon typically averaged 25 men (which includes one Navy Corpsman "Doc") We had nine killed and 22 wounded for virtually a 100% turnover rate per month. And remember, these people did not pick up their toys and go home, most of the wounded were amputees. (cont)
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