We Walked Across Their Graves (eBook)

Chapter 1

Our Journey Begins

It was just another hot week in the hills of Chu Lai. As another day dawned, some reminded themselves of how many days they had left in country. For me that number was still creeping along in high triple digits. It required 100 or fewer days to be considered a true short-timer, but I had begun to believe that the number of days left really didn’t much change anything. Like a long journey, which started with that one step, we were lost in numbers that had no real relevance. We were relieved about a day that passed but ever concerned about a day pending—what would it bring?

There was no time to dwell on tomorrow. As usual, we had spent the night as a fire team on one of a seemingly endless string of ambushes, and like most nights it had passed in relative calm. There had been the almost nightly show of tracers in the far off mountains, lighting the evening sky, followed by exploding flares in the same general area. These displays, because of their distance, didn’t include sound, but each of us watching from our fire team ambush knew that the participants in last night’s show were some part of either 1/5 or 3/5 on a long-range patrol. In no more than platoon strength, they probably had been probed by a few of the enemy moving about in the inky darkness of the jungle-covered hills to our due west.

We relived that routine almost every night I had been in Vietnam. Some nights I was part of the spectacle, and some nights I was simply one member of the audience. As part of Kilo 3/5, we had long- and short-range patrols over the months. We generally found ourselves, even when in a squad-size patrol of men, outnumbering our adversaries or favorably matching them. But it hadn’t always been like that in this area, and with a major Air Force base behind us, things could change quickly. As part of two platoons from company K, we were now manning a hill on the perimeter protecting the air base. That placed us just a few a thousand meters, or klicks, away from the nearby mountains that always seemed to harbor some small element of the enemy.

This morning, though, April 21, 1967, we had returned from our ambushes and—after a quick debriefing—moved to our hooches to prepare our morning c-rats, clean our weapons and go about the daily business of manning a hill. That meant work parties for E3s (lance corporals) and below and other routine duties for those above that rank.

Eating and cleaning were out of the way by 10 a.m., then it was off to burn the fourholers. What a delightful way to spend a morning. Find the crap-encrusted gloves, retrieve the drum of fuel to start the fire, hinge up and secure the back of the outhouse, drag out the brimming full 25 gallon drum of waste with its resident fly families (including hungry maggot children feasting on the filth), pour the fuel over the mess, light it off, then enjoy a leisurely cigarette (or three), and immerse yourself in a conversation about home.

My fellow conversationalist for this morning was the always-likable Wilson, not the white one (who was an office poge and therefore not involved in this kind of duty), but the black one from Chicago who claimed to be a former member of the Blackstone Rangers. Being white and from ever-sunny southern California, I was always fascinated by his stories of derring-do and the terrible winters he and his family had to suffer in far-away Chicago. Wilson had been with the company for about five months and somehow had just gotten himself appointed as ammo humper to our newest gunner, a guy who hailed from Texas. Wilson looked on his new position as an opportunity to escape the drudgery of life as a 0311 (your “Military Occupational Specialty” (MOS) designation and, in this case, grunt, ground pounder, infantry). I tried to remind him of the added threat entailed with being next to the machine gun, but he countered that for a black man this was a chance to prove himself, though he and I agreed that being attached to a Texan wasn’t in his best interest. Wilson was to begin his new duties any day now, and I told him I would miss him and his tales of Chicago as delivered in the ashy smoke of the burning shitters. He chuckled that he would miss me, too.

Our morning pleasantries accomplished, we started back to the tent to receive our next assignment. There seemed to be a lot of moving about as we returned, and as we passed a familiar face we were told to see our squad leader because we were moving out. As always we were in the dark about what this might mean but made our way to our newly appointed squad leader, Gary Bovich.

Bo was one of my favorite people in the company, because he had befriended me in my first days in country. He was friendly and outgoing, which I wasn’t. He was from California, though, which forged a bond of sorts. He was also older than me and married, which to my young mind gave him a position of authority and wisdom.

When I joined the company in August of 1966, they were out on an operation. The hill they had been manning was occupied by only a skeleton crew, which I joined. I had no idea who Kilo 3/5 was or how it had gotten here, but when Bo and the remainder of the company returned later that week, Bo was made my team leader and adviser. He filled me in on what the company had been doing since arriving in-country earlier in the year, and he also counseled me on how to conduct myself with a group of combat Marines.

Until that time the company had been in only two major operations. The worst of the two was Operation Hastings, which became the measuring stick for intensity of combat in future operations. During Hastings, India Company suffered 23 killed. Kilo was in the vicinity of the major combat but hadn’t been able to participate as much as they would have liked. Even so, Kilo had sustained their own casualties and had learned how difficult it was to operate in the hills and mountains of Vietnam.

Bo was convinced that if we newbies—me, Kermit from California, McDonald from California, Wilson from Chicago and finally the ever-whiney Nelly from Chicago—would just learn from the older guys, we would be alright and finish our tour unharmed. Bo was positive and reassuring, which was definitely what I needed to hear.

After signing up for an extra six months of duty in Vietnam, Bo had just returned from leave and was our new squad leader. By extending his time in Vietnam, upon returning home Bo would be mustered out of the Marine Corps before his official time was up. The Marine Corps was using that incentive as a way of keeping more qualified men in country while we newbies entered the mix.

When Wilson and I got to where Bo was filling his pack (he took c-rats and extra ammo, flares, one 60mm mortar, poncho, extra socks and writing gear), he addressed us as if he knew we were coming. His directions to Wilson were quick and terse: “Get your stuff and get over to the machine gunner tent and link up with the new gunner, the Texan. You’re with them now. Good luck.” I was going to miss Wilson; he and I seemed to have a lot in common. Because we were both high school dropouts and barely 19 years old, most of the squad treated us like dumb kids.

As for me, Bo told me to retrieve extra c-rats from the open container in the middle of the hooch and to pack extra ammo for myself, a hundred rounds of linked ammo for the machine gun, and flares. Last, he said to be sure to include four grenades in my pouch.

I dug through the remaining c-rats and found that my favorite was still there: chopped ham and eggs. Most of the guys avoided it like the plague. Because the others hated the powdered eggs contained in the meal, my child’s mind calculated that by learning to enjoy them I would seldom be involved in the conflicts surrounding claims on the other meals, such as the ever-popular beans and wienies, which included a tin of flavored cheese.

I had also been made a team leader, even though I was still only an E3, Lance Corporal. Someone higher up had goofed. I was still used on the “shit details,” and my being a team leader didn’t heighten the men’s opinion of me.

Bo came over and told me I would now have two newbies plus Nelly on my team. The addition of Nelly wasn’t good. He was a whiner and, at 28, was one of the oldest men in the company. I had been his team leader before, during patrols, and he would badger me knowing that I was never really clear on details. He would ask at what grid coordinates (longitude and latitude positions on a military map) we were or when we should call in marking fire or any number of other bits and pieces that he knew I couldn’t immediately answer. When I had no answer for him, he would begin to lecture me on my responsibility to lead the fire team well. All of that would be going on as I tried my best to observe the actions of the team and keep my head into what we were doing. Of course he was right and because of my immaturity (or maybe just because of how I looked at our difference in age), generally I just couldn’t answer his arguments. And yet he had never requested to leave the team when assigned to it but rather would vent within Bo’s earshot, so that he could lead from the rear of the pack—or so I surmised. This intellectual game was something I must have missed by leaving school early. In the group I ran with back in the states, it was what you did and not what you claimed to know that placed you in the group. As I understood it, Nelly had actually attended a major college and the pecking order must have been arrived at some different way in college. Nevertheless, the fact that he had attended college served to cow me when he challenged me.

The newbies on my team included a stocky, well-built kid from Alabama...