Population: 110; one company of ARVN soldiers and 2 advisors, Captain Bill and me, 1st Lt.
Date: Mid-June, 1968.
ROE: fire only if fired upon.
"Probe the DMZ and look for signs of enemy activity," were the orders. Our response: "Wonder which dumbass REMF came up with that brilliant idea?" We could see a mile in either direction from the outpost, a huge sand dune a few hundred feet south of the Z. Plus, there were motion sensors planted throughout the area. Plus, a FAC (Forward Air Controller in a small airplane) could do a flyover any time to see if there was any enemy activity.
NVA artillery on the cliffs just north of the Ben Hai River, about a mile away from A1, had the high ground, a clear view of our outpost and the DMZ for miles around. Their gunners were good, could drop a round in your back pocket at will, having numerous preregistered points in the DMZ. They fired salvos into our outpost whenever they were bored, watched us dive into our rat holes, laughed their asses off. They got bored quite often. Our rat holes were bunkers dug deep into the sand and covered with 3' of sand bags, with only small firing ports above ground on all 4 sides.
Ours is not to question why. Saddle up: steel pot, flak jacket, web gear, M16, 2 extra magazines, 1 canteen of water, 1 C-Rat. It was a one-day op, didn't need sleeping gear. An ARVN would carry our 25-pound PRC-25 radio. It would be the 2 advisors - Captain Bill and me - and 3 platoons of ARVN, leaving 1 platoon behind to secure the outpost.
BOOM! "Incoming!" We'd been in the Z about 45 minutes when the first artillery round landed 15' behind the HQ group - easily identified at a distance by our waving radio antennas. Shrapnel bounced off my flak jacket and helmet, nearly knocking me to the ground. Bill and I took off like scalded cats and dove into a huge bomb crater, our radio carrier not far behind. Boom! Boom! Boom! One salvo after another. Terrifying! Deafening! Pucker factor 10!
Bill got on the horn to HQ in Dong Ha, "Cobra to base, we're under artillery attack, need a FAC to contact Swordfish. Yesterday! Over." Luckily, there was already a FAC in the air, monitoring a marine op several clicks southwest of us. Base diverted the FAC, which called us for a sit-rep a few minutes later. Bill provided our coordinates, said, "Crank up Swordfish and shut 'em down!"
FAC, "Roger that, Cobra. Going off-push to contact Swordfish. Bird Dog, out." Swordfish was the battleship New Jersey, cruising a few miles offshore, the NVA guns well within their range. The NJ had 16" guns, 2K pounds per round. NVA guns were probably 105 MM, about 33 pounds. No contest! We cheered when the first NJ rounds landed, putting an abrupt halt to the barrage.
Silence never sounded so good! As we cautiously emerged from the bomb crater I noticed my right pants leg was wet in back. "What the hell!?" Did I get hit? I felt around above the wetness, didn't feel any wounds. I yanked out my canteen: holes on both sides. "Holy shit!" Yanked out the canteen cup: yup, nasty jagged hole. Looked closely at the sturdy canvas canteen holder: holes on both sides. So, where's the shrap?
I stripped off my web gear and probed around with my army knife. "Plunk." The chunk of shrapnel that had been lodged in my web belt bounced off my jungle boot onto the ground. Bill was watching me, big grin on his face. "You think it's funny, you freakin' hyena?" That got him laughing out loud, which relieved the tension, forcing a wry grin from me.
We lucked out that day, thanks to our flak jackets, helmets and the numerous bomb craters. Only a handful of walking wounded amongst the ARVN. No KIA other than my canteen.
So, this Memorial Day, I salute my canteen, which made the ultimate sacrifice on my behalf, saving me from the loss of a kidney, if not my life.
The wooden skewer marks the path of the shrapnel, which still had enough momentum
to do me damage if my heavy web belt hadn't been in the way.
