A STORY FROM ANOTHER WAR

by Richard A. Rodden

     We were to travel to our destination on Navy riverine troop carriers that came in from the South China Sea.  There must have been sixty or so of them at the waters edge with their front ramps down. The troop carriers looked like the landing craft in the movie “Bataan” only smaller. I had often compared the events of my tour of duty to movies I had seen. Perhaps as a way of preserving my sanity by thinking “it’s just a movie.” Like I did as a small child watching scary films. The entire camp was moving at a double time pace as men and supplies were staged.  Within a short while all personnel and gear had been loaded and we began to move down river in separate groups of ten or twelve craft with each group spaced a hundred yards or so from the next. We were the last group out. 

     It was to be a four hour run down river to our field Headquarters location.  As our engine powered up and we eased out to mid-river everyone on board was positioning his backpack as a pillow in anticipation of a morning nap. We had, after all, been up since 0300 hours. The low purr of the diesel engines and the gentle motion of the craft were conducive for sleeping, and soon, most of the eighteen men on board were asleep. I tried to do the same but to no avail. My mind was busy with thoughts of home.  I wondered what my friends were doing and what I was missing. It all seemed so far away that I had to confirm in my own mind that it still existed.  I stood on the bench ledge that bordered the interior of the craft to survey the scenery along the riverbank for a long while. The Mekong Delta had the look of a tropical paradise. The plant life along the river was plush and colorful. The vegetation grew thicker the further away we traveled from My Tho and its surrounding villages. It seemed peaceful and unimposing. For a while, at least, I forgot about the helter-skelter existence that I had survived since arriving ‘in-country’ three months ago. 

     About two and a half hours out everyone was startled awake by the sudden roaring acceleration of the diesel engines and seemingly inaudible loud squelching sounds from the on-board radio.  We had moved into a ‘hot zone’.  I grabbed my steel pot and stepped onto the bench of the boat and peered out over the ledge to see what was going on.  Then came the well-known pops of small arms fire from our front.  The group ahead was taking fire from the east bank. The Navy gunmen were returning fire from their swivel mounted M-60 machine guns, as were the infantrymen on board.  I was traveling with the Headquarters group and we were apparently instructed to circle back up river and wait.  As we were making the turn I saw movement in the trees and I ran to the stairway leading up to the rear deck portion of the craft and yelled, “There’s somebody moving around out there”, as I pointed in that direction.  The M-60 gunmen opened fire immediately and the helmsman was on the radio screaming, “GOOKS IN THE TREES! FIRE AT WILL, FIRE AT WILL”!  I went back to grab my weapon and heard an almost simultaneous ‘clack’ as everyone else on board was locking and loading their weapons.  Suddenly, we were being fired on!  There was a loud clatter of small arms fire against the sides of our armored hull.  I heard screams of pain from the deck and knew someone had been hit.  I approached the stairway once again and yelled, “I’m a medic, is somebody down”!  A response came quickly, “Yeah, but keep your ass down ‘til we get clear”!  Some of the men on board began to return fire.  Just as I stepped on the bench ledge to do the same there was a lieutenant yelling, “Everybody down, the pricks have rockets”!! There was a loud ‘swooshing’ sound that seemed to pass right through us but the subsequent explosion occurred on the craft traveling to our rear in the formation.  They must have been very close to us because there was an instant of a vacuum created by the blast that made me feel disoriented.  Then there was the smell of smoke and fire and a spray of water like a North Texas thunderstorm.  Our boat was pushed by the blast, as we seemed to dip at the bow and then spin right 180 degrees to where we were facing the opposite direction.  Debris from the explosion clanged against our hull.  The helmsman regained control by turning hard to the right letting the momentum of the blast take us to a full 360-degree spin and then accelerating as the bow came around.  Everybody was thrashed against the sides and fell against each other on the floor.  Then another ‘swooshing’ sound from a rocket that hit our boat high, above the hull line, ripping the front canopy braces into pieces.  The front section of the canopy fell and the rocket went through and exploded under water some distance away.  I heard three more rockets launched but they must have been misses as the explosions came from the opposite bank of the river.  The noises of battle began to diminish as we sped up river.  Everybody on board sank into a sitting position thankful of not taking a direct hit.  I felt drained from the usual rush of fear and adrenaline that comes every time the shooting starts.

     Before I could regain my composure two of the Navy crewman were making their way down from the deck carrying a third.  One was yelling, “Who’s the Medic?  Manny’s been hit!  Help him, please don’t let him die”!  The wounded man was wearing a flak jacket but it was open in front and soaked with blood.  I instructed them to lay him down gently and kneeled over him.  He was hit in the right shoulder, left leg, and most seriously, through the right chest.  The entry wound there was bubbling, indicating the bullet went through the lung.  With help, I got his flak jacket and shirt off so that I could see the exit wound.  His buddy was getting hysterical and was again yelling, “Do something ‘goddammit’, don’t let him die”!  The Lieutenant and a couple others pulled him away and tried to calm him down.  I tried to ignore his yelling as best I could but I also knew how he felt.  The fear of losing a friend even in a place where you knew it could happen at any time is heightened even more from the shock of actually seeing them knocked around and ripped apart by hot lead.  I treated the chest wound first and he began to breathe much easier when I tightened a vaseline dressing to both sides of the wound, thus creating at least some sort of seal for his right lung.  As I applied dressings to his less serious wounds I knew his only chance of surviving would depend on how quickly he could be evacuated to a surgeon.  I yelled at the helmsman to find out where the wounded would be picked up and to inform Battalion triage that we had a sucking chest wound.  He yelled back, “It’s a done deal Doc, Were headed that way”. 

    We soon pulled up to a spot on the west bank and the front ramp of the craft dropped to reveal a thin line of trees with a clearing behind them.  When the engines were stopped I could hear the distant chopping sounds of helicopters and I knew evacuation would be soon for the wounded man.  I asked for help from three other men as I took a half shelter out of my back- pack.  We rolled him and positioned it under his body.  With each man on a corner we lifted him up and headed out toward the clearing.  There was already a lot activity in the clearing as other wounded were being brought to this LZ.  I could still hear sporadic gunfire in the distance and the first three helicopters that arrived were Huey gun ships that were about to burn some swamp on the east bank.  As we moved toward what was apparently the triage area Dr. Filtzer, our Battalion surgeon, came running in my direction and was yelling, “Get somebody else to carry, I need you with me NOW”!!  The crewman who was the buddy of the wounded man grabbed my corner and I hustled to follow Dr. Filtzer.  There were already ten wounded men sitting or lying in a group waiting for evacuation.  When I caught up with Dr. Filtzer he immediately asked, “That’s the sucking chest wound”?  I answered yes and he knelt to look as the wounded crewman was laid on the ground.  “OK”, he said, “he’s on the first chopper”!  Just then, Bill Ihrig, my best friend here, was approaching with another medic carrying a footlocker of supplies.  “Bill, you and Rodden get an IV on this guy quickly”!  Bill and I proceeded to do so when I noticed a group of eight or ten men lying separately from the rest of the wounded about fifty yards away.  Bill spoke when he saw me looking in that direction.  “Rob Panfil is over there, he didn’t make it”!  Rob was another friend and my heart sank as we went about our business with the IV.  “Hurry up! Dr. Filtzer yelled, “IV this guy too, and splint his leg, morphine too”!  We were just finishing and moved on as instructed.  Other medics who were on platoon duty began to arrive to help with the wounded just as the first Huey was setting down.  I was glad to see the Navy crewman awake and talking to his buddy as he was being carried to the first chopper.  Dr Filtzer was cursing as he was attending to a man who was just carried in and was badly burned.  “Ihrig, over here with me, Rodden check those guys and let me know what’s up”, he said as he pointed toward two more being brought in.  One had taken a bullet through the buttocks that exited his upper leg.  The platoon medic, John Betherum, who brought this guy in had already taken good care of him.  He seemed to be in a calm, euphoric mood from the effects of two morphine ampoules.  The other man, however, had taken shrapnel across the abdomen. I pulled up the large dressing on his stomach. His intestines were protruding, and he was unconscious from shock.  I yelled to Dr. Filtzer, “We’ve got a bad one in the gut”!  He looked my way and yelled back, “Get him to a chopper NOW and tell them to IV him and get him out of here”!  Betherum and I picked him up like the opposing sides of a chair and ran with him toward a Huey that was just settling to the ground.  As we approached, a medic on the chopper jumped off to help us get him onto one of the bunk bed stretchers.  A second medic on the chopper was already hanging an IV for the wounded man.  Ihrig and another medic approached right behind us with the man who had been badly burned.  His face was unrecognizable and he was charred from the waist up.  I felt a little queezy as I helped lift him into the chopper.  We all laid flat on the ground as the Huey took off in a low crawl then suddenly sprang up and banked right just over the treetops.  “Who was that”?  I asked.  “Don’t know, couldn’t tell.  He’s probably not going to make it, we couldn’t find a pulse anywhere but there was some noticeable breathing.  Doc Filtzer didn’t want to give up on him”.  We looked back toward the triage area and saw only three wounded left and they were standing and walking on their own toward a chopper.  Dr. Filtzer was sitting on the supply locker with his face in his hands.  We headed toward him to see what was next.  As we approached we saw two more men being carried toward the area where the dead were placed.

     Dr. Filtzer stood up as we approached and said, “Looks like things are cooling off.  You two can help me toe tag these guys”.  This meant we were to help determine the exact cause of death and identify the men who didn’t make it.  I had never actually participated in this and I was not looking forward to doing so.  Ihrig mumbled quietly, “God, I hate this shit”.  There was total of fourteen dead.   I often had to hold my breath to keep from puking from the sight of some of the gore.  Somehow it wasn’t the same as dealing with it in the heat of battle where one didn’t have time to stop and think about it.  From the look of the faces of these men it seemed to me that most had died instantly.  Except for a few with faces wrought with agony.  Rob Panfil was one of them.  His eyes were open and he had and icy open-mouthed stare as if in disbelief of death.  I pulled his eyes closed with my thumb.  It took almost an hour to finish this ordeal.  I had to find a bit of shade near the river to sit and recover from it.  I felt numb, helpless, and somewhat out of touch with reality.  I had treated a lot of men in the field the past several weeks.  I wondered if any of them died because of me.  I saw Ihrig talking to Dr. Filtzer and looking in my direction.  The two of them then came over to sit with me.  “You okay Rich”, Ihrig asked.  I explained how I felt.  Dr. Filtzer spoke up, “The thing is, this shit isn’t reality so it’s probably best to remain out of touch to some degree.  Reality is back home.  The important thing is not to dwell on things that are not in your control.   Lets just survive this God-awful place and just do what we can do.  We cannot save them all.”  He gave me a couple of stern raps on the helmet and reached into the leg pocket of his fatigues and pulled out a flask.  “This is thirty year old Scotch, take a swig and pass it around”.  The three of us took two swallows apiece.  I felt much better from both his advice and the hooch.  “Come on”, he continued, “Lets get our shit together, we need to move out as soon as possible.  Rodden, get your gear out of that other boat and ride with us.“

     It took a half-hour or so to load up our medical supplies and other gear. All during this time numerous chopper gunship sorties flew over to lay cover fire on both sides of the river hopefully to belay the possibility of any other enemy encounters for the rest of the trip to the headquarters camp. As we backed away from the bank I watched the crew at the LZ loading the body bags onto choppers and felt both thankful to be alive and so afraid of what might be in store that my knees began to shake. I more or less collapsed onto the bench with my legs under me and my head back against the sidewall. I closed my eyes and tried to compose myself hoping no one noticed my fear. Ihrig came over and sat beside me and pulled a deck of cards out of his fatigues and announced, “I bet I can kick your ass at Gin!” Bill seemed to always know how to change my mood. So I replied, “Well, that would be a first for you so take your best shot!” The remainder of the trip was relatively uneventful except for the noise of friendly fire from the air. Bill and I put down the cards to stand up and watch when a pair of F-104’s flew in low over the convoy to lay in two runs of napalm along the west bank. It is a sight that mere words cannot do justice to. Its sort of like liquid fire that spreads rapidly and volumes up to 50 feet or so leaving only charred stumps and other debris in its wake within a matter of minutes. We could feel the heat of the blaze from the middle of the river as it came in waves with each drop. We continued the card game but were both curious about what was being said in low tones where Dr. Filtzer was sitting with Col. Andersen, who was our Battalion commander’s adjutant, and two other officers.  Eventually, Doc came over and informed us that we needed to get on the radio as soon as we got to base camp and order six medical footlockers for delivery ASAP. “Six! What the hell is going on out here”, Bill asked. He explained that the area was thick with Viet Cong and that the 2^nd Battalion had already been here two days and was experiencing heavy casualties. This was going to be different from the hit and run tactics that we were accustomed to dealing with. My tropical vacation was becoming a trip through Hell’s backyard.

     We finally reached the base camp in the early afternoon just as a steady rain began to fall. The river was very wide at this point so I surmised was must be near the South China Sea. I put on my poncho and gear as we approached. The camp was much bigger than I expected. There were 12 large tents and 3 armored command modules with at least 3 infantry companies on hand to secure the area. I stepped off the lowered ramp and immediately sank ankle deep in mud. I assumed this was from heavy rains and that it would dry quickly when the rains stopped. I would later find out that this was not the case. Bill and I solicited help from others and carried our supplies to the aid station that was situated fifty yards or so from the riverbank. It really is no fun carrying heavy stuff in ankle deep mud. The whole area was a beehive of activity and there was a lot of sporadic gunfire in the distance. It took an hour and a half or so to get the aid station organized. Bill and I sat to take a break and finally noticed something we had never seen before. All along the perimeter and throughout the camp were places where mud filled sand bags had been stacked 8 high and 4 across. We went to inspect one and found that they were also supported by a thin plank under the top layer of sandbags and open on one end. There was a space inside just wide enough for one man to crawl into. We wondered why this was done rather than a sandbagged bunker. It seemed to us that one could only return fire in one direction if inside and besides, they were all facing different directions. Then Vic Gancitano, a rifleman with Charlie Company, walked over and said, “What are ‘yous guys’ (Vic was a Jersey boy) doin’ on my rack?” “Your rack? You sleep in this thing”, I asked? “Not in it, on it”, was the reply. “Yous better get humpin’ on yours before sundown” he added as he walked away. We of course did as suggested building our ‘beds’ near the aid station. The sun was getting low in the sky and the rain had stopped by the time we finished. While we were sitting in the aid station and choking down a box of C-rations a large ship came by parallel to the camp and then turned left to where we could see the rear of the vessel. Across the stern were markings revealing that the ship was from Galveston, Texas. We had a lot of Texas boys in our battalion so there was a lot of cheering, yelling, and idle claims of swimming out to catch a ride home. I grabbed my camera and took a picture of it before it got too far away. It was then that I noticed that the landing pad for choppers that was near the bank was partially submerged. “What the hell”, I thought to myself. We were apparently located near enough to the sea so that the area was affected by the tides. Bill and sat and watched in amazement over the next hour as most of the camp went almost knee deep in water. We wondered whose bright idea it was to park headquarters underwater. More importantly, once known, why not move a few hundred yards more inland where it was higher and dryer.  We finally looked at each other and laughed until we cried realizing how typical this was for Army ‘Intelligence’, and we, of course, now realized the purpose of the elevated beds. Bill and I sat on our sand bag bunks, talked, and anticipated casualties, as there was a lot of gunfire in the distance for most of the early evening. There were also artillery fire missions sounding off on all sides.  Surprisingly, no casualties came all night. We surmised that what we heard was clearing fire, a tactic of laying out barrages with all weapons available just in case the enemy was close.  This was certainly a tactic I could live with. Somehow, I slept well.

The next day started early.  I awoke to the sounds of outgoing mortar fire. It was still dark. On instinct I rolled off my ‘bunk’. The tide had receded but the mud was deep and slippery.  I grabbed my AR-15 and strapped on an ammo belt. Looking toward the inland perimeter the flashes of light from the tubes of the rapidly firing mortar crews created a surreal vision much like an old black and white movie I had seen about World War I. Everyone appeared to be moving about in spurts of motion as they scrambled toward their stations. The fire missions were directed very close to camp, so close that the ground was shaking from the explosions.  Headquarters camp was coming alive and we were surrounded by the sounds of war. I could hear choppers in the distance and see tracer rounds from their guns and brighter lights from air-to-ground rockets launched in rapid salvos. There were soldiers running and yelling as though in panic.  We were not taking any enemy fire so I moved to the aid station to stage supplies. Bill arrived about the same time. “Is this crazy or what”, I asked. “I thought this would be a lot easier and quieter.”  “Well,” he replied, “I guess its not going to be boring today. “  Dr. Filtzer came in as we were moving supplies from the footlockers to the two small worktables that were set up inside the tent. He had a thermos of coffee and the three of us sat under the tent and watched the sun rise amidst the sound and sight of explosions around the area. Most of the action had been redirected toward an area across the river. We talked and waited for casualties. The one good thing about working at an aid station is the fact that we would generally see only walking wounded and less serious injuries. It seems odd to say that any injury of war isn’t serious but the concept of reality becomes very twisted in extreme situations and this would qualify as extreme to the Nth. The more serious would be extracted from the field and taken to the base camp hospital or the main hospitals at Camp Bearcat or in Saigon. With the morning light we could see an amazing amount of chopper activity in the area. The skies all around were thick with them. I tried to count them but lost track at twenty-three. The area was obviously hot and I was glad to be observing from a distance.

     There was very little activity at the aid station during the morning hours, maybe seven or eight casualties. Most were leg wounds. One guy had tripped a trail trap made of flexible limbs with sharp wooden stakes attached that swung across a trail. He came in with a piece of a stake still embedded in his upper thigh. Another ‘lucky’ soldier had taken a chunk of shrapnel that lodged just under the skin of his back. It looked like an irregular lump about a half hockey puck in size. Oddly there was very little bleeding and apparently very little discomfort. Doc Filtzer wanted to go ahead and remove it rather than send him out to a hospital. To do so required making an incision in the thin layer of skin that was stretched across the top of the embedded metal. To my surprise he had me make the cut while he used his hands to push the skin together so that the incision would be even. Once done the shrapnel piece was easily removed. I cleaned the wound with antiseptics then applied a dressing after Doc stitched the skin together. He caught the next chopper out of the swamp. Yes, a ‘lucky’ man indeed. Later, a hot lunch was brought in comprised of roast chicken, new potatoes, corn and fruit. Not bad considering the circumstances. I surmised that it was a perk that comes with hangin’ out at headquarters. Our additional supplies came as well. The report from the field was that contact was being made but the enemy was being evasive and firefights have been short. Probably because of the air support pounding that they took in the early hours of the day.

     Casualties were light at the aid station in the afternoon. In fact, it was much too quiet all around the area. I hoped that this meant the enemy was retreating but this was not to be the case. In the late afternoon Headquarters camp came under intensive mortar fire. The first mortar round hit in the open area between the main camp and the perimeter defenses. There were no patients at the aid station so Bill and I hustled to our sandbagged bunkers and crawled in as two more rounds hit closer to home. They were zeroing in on us. I had provided myself with three filled bags inside my bunker to block the opening. I stacked them and laid low in the mud inside. A volley of four more hit very close. The ground shook violently and I could hear the whistling of metal fragments flying around and thuds as they hit my bunker.  The noise from one explosion caused my ears to hurt. I felt that I would be okay as long as I didn’t take a direct hit. In the common vernacular there was nothing one could do but “lay and pray.”  There must have been another fifteen or twenty explosions that sounded further away, followed by a deathly silence. I pulled down the top sandbag that was blocking my entrance and saw smoke moving low across the ground, like a scene from the bog in the “Hounds of the Baskerville.”  I saw no one moving from my view and there was still the eerie silence. The thought of being the only one alive flashed across my mind but I knew that couldn’t be the case. Bill’s bunker was the closest to mine so I yelled, “Bill, are you okay. Can you see what’s going on?”  I could hear him reply but it sounded muffled and I couldn’t understand what he said.  Suddenly he pulled down the other two sandbags at my entrance and stuck his head inside and asked if I was all right. It was then I realized that I couldn’t hear well as his voice was still muffled even though we were face to face. “The shelling has stopped, come out and check this out.” I crawled out and he pointed to a mortar round crater that was only three or four paces from the entry side of my bunker. Then he pointed out the sandbags that were ripped apart and had shrapnel and other debris embedded in them. “Are you sure your okay?” I said, “Yeah, except I can’t hear very well.”  “Come on,” he followed, “lets go see Doc.”  As we walked toward the aid station I surveyed the damage from the mortar barrage.  One of the large tents was completely destroyed and partially afire. Two others were damaged but still standing. There were many mortar craters that were still smoldering. The aid station, however, was unscathed except for fallen IV stands and one metal tent pole that had been bent and knocked out of place. Doc Filtzer arrived as we were reorganizing. “You guys okay”. Bill responded quickly, “Rich had a close call with a mortar shell and can’t hear very good”. Doc looked at me intensely and demanded that I sit and asked, “Any dizziness”? “No”, I snapped.  “Headache”? “No”. He pulled his small, narrow beam light out of his pocket and looked into my ears. Then he had me follow it with my eyes as he checked for dilation. “Does it seem to be getting better”, he queried.  “Yeah, I think so”.  “Okay, lets see how you’re doing in an hour or so. If its not clearing by then up your out of here.”  For a moment I considered the possibility of lying later even if I was better, which I was, but I didn’t.  Amazingly, there were only four minor injuries from the shelling. One of those odd quirks of war I suppose, because it seemed at the time that the whole world was coming apart around us.

     A mortar attack on Headquarters camp was apparently an unexpected event. Because of it, with help from a few others, we spent the better part of the next two hours building a head high row of mud filled sand bags around the aid station. The capability of the Viet Cong in this area had been grossly underestimated. Talk around camp was that they were a large force that had been secretly training across the border in Cambodia. The fact that they were well equipped was further confirmed when we say a chopper hit by a surface-to-air weapon in the distance.  As the afternoon wore on the intensity of the battle waned. Perhaps it was the heavy rains that came that day. It was normal for both sides to back off when it rained that hard. I was drenched, dirty and hungry.  A hot meal was brought in for dinner. It was the first opportunity of the day to sit and relax for a while. With sundown came the tides. We sat in the aid station and talked until the water reached our ankles. I then moved to over to sit on my bunker and attempted to write in the daily journal I kept while there was still daylight. Eventually, Bill came over to sit with me and told me he had just heard that we were to head back to Dong Tam in the afternoon of the next day. This was good news. I don’t think the operation had gone as the brass expected but that did not bother me a bit. It didn’t seem to me that any operation I had participated in to date accomplished anything anyway. We, after all, were just part of a ‘police action’.  The confrontations were certainly not about seizing and holding territory. We mainly seemed to just go out and try to determine if villages were friend or foe, see if they were hiding anything, or if there were any Viet Cong soldiers in the area. For most of us it was just about surviving our time here and going home. I could not sleep well this night.  I kept imagining another mortar attack mixed with thoughts of what I would do first when I got home. Buy a car? Get back in school? Meet a girl? Get a job? No, just a Dairyette cheeseburger would do fine.

     The early morning of the third day was quiet until about 0900 hours. There were distant booms of what was probably grenade launcher fire and the skies, once again, began to fill with chopper activity.  Everything seemed secure around Headquarters camp until four Huey gun ships flew over at low altitude and released rockets into an area very close and to the south of the camp.  Dr. Filtzer came into the aid station to report that the Viet Cong were attempting to overrun us from that direction and instructed us to put on our flack jackets and steel pots and stay low beneath the bunker line in the aid station. The air support activity began to intensify nearby, as did outbound mortar fire from the ten crews placed toward the western perimeter. We could hear a lot of radio traffic from the communications tent that near the aid station. A majority of the infantry units that had been deployed into the western sector of the operation were being brought back in to the headquarters area. The threat from the south was significant. I conjured up visions of war movies I had seen as I wondered what might happen. There was no time to sit and worry, as it wasn’t long before walking wounded began to filter in to the aid station. Most of them were talking about how the Viet Cong had managed to sneak in a large force during the night and in some areas outnumbered our units. We had fifteen soldiers come through over about an hour or so. One man carried in by two others was dead when he arrived. Apparently it was difficult to get medical evacuation choppers in and out safely in some places and air support of all types was being stressed to keep up with the number of sorties required. Additional medics to help in the aid station were brought in with the first medical evacuation chopper. The three medics were guys who worked at the Dong Tam base camp hospital and this was their first time in the field. This was quite a rude indoctrination. They seemed to be most affected by the sounds around us as they flinched at every outgoing mortar salvo and low flying chopper. They were very capable medics, however, and the help was greatly appreciated.

     The infantry units from the western sector came through camp at midday. This was a welcome sight as most were to dig in and help defend the southern perimeter. It gave me a feeling of security. This feeling was to be short lived. Over the next hour or so the air support for the mission disappeared, to reload and refuel. It was apparently a busy day all over the southern theatre of action. It was at this time that Col. Andersen came into the aid station and pulled Dr. Filtzer aside. They talked for a long time standing between the aid station and the communications tent. I could hear them raise their voices occasionally but I could not make out the conversation. Eventually they both walked back into the aid station and Dr. Filtzer spoke upon entering, “Rodden, Ihrig, we have a situation. Charlie Company is pinned in a "crossfire" south of here and ts getting chewed up.  Air support won’t be available for at least an hour.  Both medics are down.  We need to send medical help in.  You two are elected.”  It was obvious that Dr. Filtzer was opposed to the request from command.  He sounded almost mad as he had spoken.  We were asked to proceed to one of the armored command modules where large maps of the area were on hung on the walls.  Col. Andersen illustrated that we were to be carried to a point north of the battlefield on one of the river craft and then move south on foot. Bill was to approach from a point to the west of the drop off point and I was to approach by staying near the tributary from which we would be dropped. We were to find a secure spot near the action and lay low until the situation was cleared by air support or additional infantry support.  At that time we should move in to provide medical attention to the wounded. My mind raced as he explained the mission. I could not believe this was happening. I wanted to refuse but I knew I could not.  We were then told to go to the munitions bunker and load up. Dr. Filtzer sank into a chair as we walked out and yelled as we cleared the doorway, “Don’t take any chances ‘dammit’!! As we made our way to the munitions bunker Bill said over and over, “Holy shit, holy shit.  This is not good.  I don’t have a good feeling about this!” I said nothing.  I was scared speechless.

   When we reached the munitions bunker we found it unsupervised. So, load up we did.  I traded my standard AR-15 rifle for a modified AR-15.  I always wanted one.  It was shorter with a spring- loaded extendable butt and a long flash depressor.  One could fire it from the hip or extend it like a standard rifle.  I grabbed two ammo belts and six ammo pouches with two thirty round clips in each pouch. I also took a grenade belt and hung four grenades on it.  We walked out looking like a pair of Poncho Villas with a different hat. We then went to the Aid Station to pick up our medical supply bags, which had been stuffed with supplies. Col. Andersen was waiting at the bank of the river and was pointing out landmarks on a map with the helmsman of the river craft that was to deliver us to the drop off point. We stepped on board behind the helmsman and sat quietly on opposite bench ledges and watched headquarters camp disappear as the ramp slowly rose and locked into position.  As we proceeded at what must have been full speed Bill and I stood on the right ledge surveying the landscape.  Soon we turned right to a small tributary.  It narrowed as we moved deeper into the swamp.  The trees grew over the waterway and completely blocked the sun in some places creating a feeling of being in a tunnel. The vegetation beyond the bank was thick and I knew it would be difficult to navigate on foot. Eventually we reached the drop off point.  The helmsman pointed us into the bank and dropped the ramp.  Bill and I hustled out and immediately moved for the cover of a clump of fallen trees near the bank.  We laid low in water and mud until the river craft moved away. We peered carefully in all directions looking and listening for any sounds of movement.  It was deathly quiet except for the distant sounds of gunfire, barely audible for our "vantage point".  We surmised that we must have been at least a mile from the battlefield.  Eventually we felt reasonably sure that we could move in closer to the action.  “Keep your head down” Bill exclaimed as he moved directly west away from the bank.  I responded in kind as he disappeared into the swamp, slipping and splashing as he moved slowly through the vegetation.

     It took me several minutes to move. I realized I was alone.  I considered staying where I was until I could hear choppers or the absence of gunfire in the distance.  Soon, however, I did muster the courage to head toward the battlefield.  I stayed near the bank of the tributary as instructed, always looking for the best cover as I moved as quickly as possible in spurts from one to the next.  The sounds of battle grew louder. I reached a small canal, maybe fifteen yards across, with a twelve or fifteen-foot rise on the opposite side.  I noticed the whistling sound of flying lead in the treetops amid the loud clatter of automatic weapons.  I was very close.  I crossed the canal, which was waist deep.  After crawling my way up the rise I peeked over the top.  I could see the entire battlefield from this position.  Charlie Company was trapped in a vacated rice paddy. To their south they were fronted by a large number of Viet Cong with a line that extended beyond their ranks to the west.  To the east, near the bank of the tributary, was a nest of three Viet Cong machine gun crews firing constantly across the paddy.  The only protection Charlie Company had was the levees of the rice paddy that divided the open area into quadrants.  They were lying in mud and returning fire by lifting their weapons above the levees and firing blindly in two directions.  I watched as one man leapt up and tried to run in my direction.  He was immediately cut down as his body seemed to rise off the ground and twisted in the air and fell face down in the mud. To this day I do not know what motivated me to act. I had to see if there was something I could do.  I slid back down the rise and moved toward the tributary.  Upon reaching a point where I could see in the direction of the machine gunners, I saw three sampans tied to the bank maybe a hundred and fifty yards away.  Without thinking I moved toward them staying at the bottom of the rise which ran past the sampans to a point where the tributary turned left.  I had to wade in knee-deep water to reach a point where the rise flattened at the bottom near the enemy position.  I knew they could not hear me, as there was the constant noise of their guns.  When I reached a position directly below them I lay prone against the bank and looked up to see clumps of low growing vegetation at the top of the rise.  I slowly crawled and pulled myself up to point where I could see them through the plants.  My heart raced uncontrollably when I found myself no more than ten yards from them. There were three two-man crews with good cover and at least two were firing constantly.  I slid back down the hill a few feet and pondered what to do next.  Using my grenades seemed a better option than trying to pick off all six with my shoulder weapon, if I could time it right.  I rolled to my left to get myself in the center of the three positions.  I was directly above the sampans.  I crawled back top the top to find I was close enough to the middle to operate.  I pulled three grenades off the belt and set them in front of me on the top of the hill.  There would be a six second delay from the time I released the hammer until the grenades detonated.  I hoped that would be enough time to throw the third before the first exploded.  I was sweating profusely and had to dry my hands on my shirt. I got myself into a kneeling position just below the hilltop.  I picked up the first grenade and pulled the pin.  It took me a half-minute or so to convince myself that I could pull this off.  I lifted myself up on my knees just enough to see my first target. “An easy throw”, I thought to myself.  I let it fly, grabbed the second, and pulled the pin to make the shortest toss to the position directly to my front.  The third would be the longest throw, as they were not spaced equally apart.  As I threw the grenade and immediately buried my body against the bank I thought, “Shit, that’s going to be a little short.” The first exploded. There was yelling and grunts and unintelligible language. The second exploded.  It was the closest and the ground shook enough to cause me to slide further down the hill.  Black and white smoke billowed over me.  Then the third exploded.  At the same instant a gook jumped from the top of the hill through the smoke almost right on top of me.  We looked directly into each other’s eyes and I’m sure he was as startled and scared as I was.  My weapon was under me.  He had the shot.  To my fortune he was in mid-air and missed with two pulls of the trigger. I could actually hear the whistle and thud of the bullets as they hit the bank to my right.  Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.  He landed on the side of the hill in an awkward position.  Now I had the shot.  I had my weapon in position and squeezed off four or five rounds on automatic.  I think every round hit him. A sound came from his mouth that I could never duplicate in words and he looked right at me as he fell backwards, head first, down the hill and slid until he was submerged to his shoulders in the water.  He tried to lift himself at the waist and I fired another burst.  His body jerked and slid further into the water, motionless.  I immediately turned to look back up the hill fearing others would be coming over the top. None came.

     I collapsed on my back against the side of the hill staring through thin smoke at the sky above the treetops across the water. I was temporarily lost to the world.  I heard no sounds.  I repeatedly glanced down at the Viet Cong soldier.  He had floated further out.  I never thought I would be close enough to see into the eyes of a man I killed.  It was a defining moment. The classic kill or be killed. For a moment I felt remorseful, and full of guilt.  Then I traded the guilt for fate and snapped out of it.  I could immediately tell that the tide had turned on the battlefield. The first sound I heard was an American voice shouting instructions to soldiers, and not far away. ‘Charlie’ had a way of running whenever their advantage was lost.  Damn smart when you think about it. Suddenly, to my left, an entire squad of ‘friendlies’ rushed down the hill firing on automatic and shredding the sampans. One of them saw me and pointed his weapon in my direction but immediately recognized who I was. “Rodden, where the Hell did you come from!” It was Sergeant Onely. I had trained with him at Fort Riley in Kansas. He ran over to me. “I was sent in to help.” “You toss those grenades?” “Yeah.” “”Bless you son, but get up, we’ve got a lot of men down.” He pulled me up by the ammo belts and I moved up the hill past the enemy positions. One of them was alive but injured. Two men covered him while a third tied his hands with his own bootlaces.  Looking out to the battlefield I saw six men on the unprotected side of the levees. They were all dead. Eventually the choppers came. I couldn’t tell you how long it took for them to arrive, as I was pretty much in a blue fog as I moved around treating the wounded. Altogether sixteen men died on the battlefield. I treated two others who were breathing when they were evacuated but probably did not survive. Eventually all the wounded were extracted.  I was emotionally and physically spent.  I sat down on a levee away from and with my back to everyone else.  I pulled my steel pot down over my eyes, buried my face in my   blood soaked hands, and cried uncontrollably for several minutes.

     Eventually I stood myself up and found Bill. “Christ Rich”, he started loudly and madly. “What the fuck were you thinking.” “I don’t know”, I replied.  “It just ‘kinda’ happened without thinking. I’m still shaking a little from the whole thing.  I know it was stupid.”  Bill and I had a private survival pact and my actions would not qualify as a part of the program.  He put his arm around my shoulder expressing that he was glad I was okay.  “Looks like we’re ‘gonna’ have to walk back to camp with Charlie Company.  They’re already pulling up stakes back there.  We get to go home and sleep in a dry spot tonight.”  God was I ever glad to hear that news.

     It was a long slow muddy trudge back to Headquarters camp. We finally arrived to see that all the tents had been pulled down.  I saw a large Chinook helicopter lifting one of the command modules by long cables.   I learned that the operation would continue but the camp was being relocated.  I wondered if I would have to return to the swamp in a few days.  Dr. Filtzer spotted us and yelled for us to follow him.  When we reached him he first glared at me like he was incensed but then smiled enormously and said, “I am so happy to see you two, come on in.”  He led us into the last remaining command module. Inside was Col. Andersen, Col. Buldoc, our Battalion commander, and a table with two flasks of that thirty-year-old scotch. Col Buldoc thanked us for dedication to duty and offered us cups for the scotch.  If he only knew how we really felt about this war.  Perhaps he did but didn’t care.  The four of us sat, drank, and talked about home until it was our turn to board a chopper bound for Dong Tam Base Camp. 

     I never had to return to the Rung Sat Swamp.  I understand that much of it was torched with napalm, rockets and bombs over the ensuing week.  I, of course, will never forget the three days I spent there.  To this day all the details of my experience are still vivid in my mind.  I do not think of it in a fearful or anxious way.  Mainly I remember the men, both living and dead, who were a part of my life at the time.  Though I did not name all of them I can tell you that they all would have similar stories to tell.  This story is not unique.  It only recounts a part of a larger story and is dedicated to those men who are not living to tell theirs.

© Copyright Richard A. Rodden. All rights reserved.