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  Our operations in the jungle were known as Operation Billings by the Americans, and Operations Song Than and Dong Nai by the Vietnamese. The U.S. unit in the area was the 1st U.S. Infantry Division, “the Big Red One.” Though we conducted a few coordinated operations with the U.S. forces, the jungle was too dense for large operations. You had to literally hack your way through vines and thick foliage, moving very slowly, mostly in small units—squad-sized, platoon-sized, maybe company-sized patrols. I learned a great deal about jungle craft, patrolling, tactics, and survival from the skilled Vietnamese Marines on these patrols.

  The aim of Billings was to interdict the enemy coming down the Ho Chi Minh Trail through Laos and Cambodia and infiltrating through the mountains and rugged terrain of the jungles into the populated regions near the coast. We didn’t actually encounter large numbers of the enemy in the jungle, but we knew they were there. Our job was to search for indications of them, their infiltration routes, or base camps or other places they might be using as sanctuaries; and we frequently found unoccupied VC positions—often clever bunkers tunneled under thick bamboo clumps, providing them with a natural cover.

  Because of the difficult terrain, the Vietnamese command wanted top troops there, and that meant the Marines.

  We operated out of a small village on the edge of the jungle called Tan Uyen, where the Marines had a base. From there we’d send a company into the jungle for six or seven days at a time to look for enemy moving eastward from the Cambodian border.

  Under the thick jungle canopy, we were on our own; we could not expect reinforcement or resupply, and we carried little food. We had no field rations, for example (such as American C rations). With the exception of a few balls of precooked rice packed in small aluminum cans, a chicken or two bound and gagged over our packs (to be killed and eaten the first or second day out), and some nouc mam, Vietnamese fish sauce, everything we ate had to be foraged (like breadfruit or bamboo shoots) or killed (like monkeys and snakes) in the field.

  Once in the jungle, the Marines knew how to use materials found there to enhance their living conditions and improve their security.

  I learned how to quickly build bamboo platforms for my gear, how to set up alarms and booby traps around our night base, and how to read tracks and signs in the jungle from our expert scouts. The most important lesson I learned was how to travel light. Before each patrol, I found a new way to lighten my load and leave behind another previously “indispensable” piece of gear.

  On my first patrol, I carried a heavy U.S. jungle hammock and a “rubber lady”—an inflatable mattress. As I settled in for the night, the Marines warned me not to sleep on the ground. “Set up your hammock in a tree,” they told me.

  I thought that was a bad idea. “We shouldn’t sleep in the trees,” I answered. “We have to be ready in case the enemy attacks.”

  They shook their heads knowingly and slept in the trees.

  Just in case, I tied my hammock up in a tree, but went to sleep on my rubber lady.

  In the middle of the night, my mattress suddenly deflated like a tire blowing out, and I was stabbed by hundreds of burning hot stings. Slapping wildly at them, I jumped into the hammock. I didn’t need further persuasion. In time, the pain subsided and I was able to sleep.

  The next morning, my skin was a red mass of bites. And when I poked my head over my hammock, I could see my mattress—or what was left of it—being devoured by thousands of ants. Only a two-foot square remained.

  The Marines gave me an “I told you so” look. Then advised me to get rid of my heavy hammock and grab one of their light nylon ones (they folded up small enough to be stowed in a pocket). I did.

  THE FIELDCRAFT of the Vietnamese was impressive.

  Every activity on the patrols was a preset drill. Before we set out, we rehearsed everything—occupation of a patrol base; getting water; acquiring food; setting up our night defenses; crossing danger areas such as streams and clearings; setting up ambushes; and even using the field sanitation pits. Nothing was left to chance or improvisation. No one did anything alone (some Marines’ only function was to maintain security while others fetched water or gathered food). And no one did anything until the order was given. Anyone attempting otherwise did so at his peril.

  On one patrol, we lost a new recruit who went off to get water from a nearby stream before the order came to go. All we found after a search was his helmet by a stream.

  In the jungle, it wasn’t only the enemy you had to worry about; other dangers could easily strike. I awoke one morning to hear an obviously upset company commander chewing out his men for some nighttime security breach. This was strange, since the Vietnamese Marines were reliably vigilant, especially at night. When I asked him about it, he showed me a huge steaming pile of dung in the middle of the patrol base. It was tiger shit.

  The Marines swore that they’d been alert; and I believed them. The tiger had come in without tripping any of our bamboo clapper alarms or claymore mines and had been undetected by our security. I didn’t sleep too soundly after that.

  On another morning, I was awakened by a group of Marines around my hammock, chattering excitedly and pointing above the poncho I had rigged over it. Pulling back the poncho revealed a gigantic snake curled on a branch a few feet above my head—a twelve-foot python with a big bulge in his middle. He had recently eaten.

  To the Vietnamese this was gold. They quickly cut down the snake, twisted the lethargic reptile around a makeshift pole cut from a branch, and sewed up the snake’s mouth with a rawhide-like chord. Though the snake seemed half-dead, I assumed that condition had been brought on by his recent meal.

  The Marines decided we should take the snake back to the village, since killing and eating it in the field would be a waste (food spoiled fast and had to be consumed shortly after killing it). We had three days left on our patrol.

  Toward the end of the patrol, the snake grew increasingly active, but we made it back with him and enjoyed a grand meal.

  THE MARINES were as careful in their departures as they were in their preparations. They tried never to leave any trace of their presence behind. When we pulled out of our bases, we meticulously cleaned them. The aim was to leave behind as little evidence of our presence as possible and to prevent the VC from getting their hands on anything they could use . . . a discarded C ration can and a grenade could quickly be turned into a booby trap.

  Several times we came across positions once used by U.S. or South Vietnamese units. Since these were always booby-trapped by the enemy, I was glad our policy was never to occupy a position used before. The Vietnamese were always angered by the carelessness of U.S. forces. Abandoned U.S. bases or night positions normally had claymore mines still in place and discarded or forgotten equipment strewn about.

  THOUGH ENEMY contact on jungle patrols was rare, it was not never:

  On one patrol our base was hit for several nights in a row by indirect fire. Fortunately, the heavy canopy and ground cover kept us from suffering casualties, but we knew it was only a matter of time before our luck ran out.

  Since it was small-caliber fire and always right on us, somebody nearby had to be calling it in. That meant somebody was following us. We decided to set in a stay behind ambush the next day to try to nail them.

  The plan was to find a clearing (an ideal killing zone) and set up the ambush with our lead elements on the far side, as the rest of the patrol crossed it (we always crossed clearings carefully, as danger areas). Once they had passed through the ambush area, they’d set up as a reinforcing element behind it.

  The plan worked. A four-man VC team came into the killing zone a few minutes after our patrol had supposedly left. The Marines killed three of them, and wounded and captured the other. Though the prisoner was in bad shape and not in the best of health to start with, we were able to learn from him that the four VC were a forward observer team who tracked and called in fires on units patrolling the jungle.

  Since enemy prisoners in th
is region were hard to come by, III Corps headquarters wanted this guy right away. We were ordered to secure a landing zone and I was told to bring him and the equipment the VC had with them back to a rear location.

  When the U.S. helo came in, I loaded him and the equipment aboard and we took off for wherever they wanted him. We landed on an LZ near some buildings, where a group of officers and troops in starched uniforms and spit-shined boots were standing around. When the helo touched down, I picked up the VC with the equipment, carried him to where the group was standing, and dumped the load at their feet. I was sure this was the closest they would ever get to the enemy. I looked at their startled faces and walked back to the helo and asked the pilot to get me back to my unit right away. On the flight back, I wondered how many of them would get combat decorations for their rear echelon jobs. I was glad I was not one of them.

  MY TWENTY-FOURTH birthday came in September, during one of my times in the jungle. It wasn’t exactly a lead item on my mind. But during the day a helo dropped off resupplies and some welcome mail that I knew would have to be quickly read and destroyed.

  In the mail packet was an envelope with my name on it and nothing else. Inside was Miss September, the Playboy Playmate of the Month, naked and lying in a hammock. Written in the margins of the foldout were birthday greetings from the advisers back at the task force headquarters and a list entitled, “9 Things Wrong With This Tactical Picture”:

  1. No Overhead Cover

  2. Flanks Exposed

  3. No One on High Ground

  4. No Probing Patrols

  5. Not Tied In with Friendlies

  6. No One on Duty

  7. Not Expecting Immediate Attack

  8. Reserve Committed

  9. Susceptible to Penetration

  I shared the centerfold with the delighted Vietnamese Marines as we set up our hammocks in the patrol base that evening. I still have it to remind me of the little things we did to pump each other up.

  THE BATTLE OF THE BONG SON PLAIN

  The battle that became known as the Battle of the Bong Son Plain in II CTZ is regarded by some as the first battle of the Tet Offensive. Although it was fought a month before the January attacks of Tet, it signaled a change in the enemy’s strategy.

  Tony Zinni continues:

  It began in a strange way. By the later months of 1967, things had become very quiet, and fighting seemed to be limited to the border areas of South Vietnam in places like Khe Sanh and the Ia Drang Valley. Many of us thought the VC and NVA were now incapable of large-scale attacks outside of areas along the Cambodian and Laotian borders near their bases and supply routes.

  We were, of course, mistaken. The series of attacks that became famous as the Tet Offensive was forming up. The targets of Tet were the cities of South Vietnam. The North Vietnamese command under General Giap believed that if the attacks battered the allies enough to make them seem to lose control, the people would rise up and the war would end, as it did with the French decades before.

  One of the target cities was Qui Nhon, a coastal city in II CTZ.

  One morning an aerial observer on a routine flight over the area north of the city spotted what looked like a field expedient radio antenna. A local ARVN division dispatched a patrol to check it out. The patrol was never heard from again. A company sent to the area ran into a large VC force and was wiped out.

  These events launched a major U.S.-South Vietnamese military operation. The ensuing fighting was fierce, with the friendly units taking severe casualties. Our two-battalion task force of Vietnamese Marines was alerted and designated the II CTZ reserve for the battle that was raging.

  At this time I was again with the 4th Battalion. The old battalion commander, Major Tri, had gone to the U.S. to attend a military course, and the executive officer, Major Voung, was now the commander. Captain Kinh, a colorful and much revered old warrior (he had many wounds and many wives), was now the executive officer. Bob Hamilton was now the senior adviser, and I was filling the junior adviser position. As the battle raged, we did what we could to monitor it, but had no way of knowing how serious the fighting had become until a call came that we (the reserve) would be committed.

  As the battalion got ready to go, the task force advisers and some officers from the Corps headquarters showed up at our position to brief us. “The situation’s bad,” they told us. “The ARVN division is in desperate shape and the U.S. unit from the 1st Cav has also taken serious casualties. It’s urgent that you reinforce these units as soon as possible.”

  The plan was for our battalion to conduct a helicopter lift in two waves directly onto the ARVN position. I would go with Captain Kinh and two companies as the lead. Then the helos would lift the remainder of the battalion to join us. The other battalion and our task force headquarters would move by trucks up Highway 1 to join our battalion. The task force was put under the operational control of the 22nd ARVN Division, the unit fighting the battle.

  What we were to do once we landed was unclear, which left all of us uneasy. The fighting was heavy and our mission was hazy. Because no one seemed to have a good handle on what was happening, it was left to us to make contact with the units on the ground and work out the scheme.

  From the briefing and the maps, I could tell the VC held a group of villages, while the ARVN and U.S. forces were on high ground overlooking them. The battle had gone on for days with lots of air and artillery fire and several unsuccessful ground attacks launched by the forces we were to join.

  I knew the villages well from previous operations—beautiful places with postcard scenes of thatched houses, palm trees, and rice paddies . . . and prosperous (they made rice wine); so life was good. I’d enjoyed my times there and truly liked the people. I was anxious to see what the fighting had done to them.

  I met Captain Kinh in the pickup landing zone as we waited for the helos to come in. I would coordinate with the pilots and wanted to be sure we were ready for a “hot” zone in case the situation had worsened. I was not confident that our briefs had given us a clear picture of the conditions on the ground.

  I was glad to see my best Vietnamese friend, Captain Hoa, and his company would be one of the two companies going in our lead helo lift. The other company was also a good unit, and I felt reassured with this team of experienced fighters. Everyone seemed somber; we all shared the uneasy feeling about this mission.

  The helos landed, we went through our briefs, and then lifted off toward the north and whatever awaited us.

  As our helos started their descent into the landing zone, I looked out to get a quick sense of the situation on the ground.

  “There’s no sign of hostile fire,” the pilots told me. But I could see the devastating aftermath of truly fierce fighting. The once lovely villages were totally destroyed, and the terrain where the ARVN were located looked like a moonscape, pockmarked by shell craters and scoured of trees and brush. I had a quick flashback to the beauty and serenity of the area not long ago.

  As the helicopters slowed close to the ground, we got another disturbing sight. Panicking ARVN soldiers were running for the birds, many discarding their weapons and equipment in their dash for the helos. Though a few officers made halfhearted attempts to stop them, they couldn’t check the stampede. Our pilots, meanwhile, were very unhappy about the safety problems this mad dash was causing.

  Our Marines glared at the ARVN soldiers in disgust as we debarked from the helos and rapidly took up defensive positions around the LZ. My immediate concern—as well as Captain Kinh’s—was that the VC might be aware of the apparent mayhem and see it as an opportunity to attack.

  The helos lifted off with ARVN troops clinging to the skids and frustrated helo crew chiefs giving up on trying to push off the frightened soldiers. It was clear that this ARVN unit was beaten and useless in any action that might follow.

  Kinh, Hoa, and I looked around in disbelief, our grim expression mirrored on the faces of the other Marines.

  Kinh instructed the compan
y commanders to quickly get their positions prepared to protect the zone for the follow-on lifts and not to depend on the units already there for security. He then told me to join him. “Let’s try to find someone in charge,” he said.

  It seemed strange that no officer had approached us by now.

  We moved from position to position, until we came to a very deep hole with radio antennas sticking out of it. To my surprise, an ARVN brigadier general was inside. When he realized we were there, he jumped out and started screaming at Kinh. He was so frightened and panicked it was difficult to understand what he was saying. He was clearly over the edge. But the gist of it was orders to Kinh to launch into the attack.

  Kinh yelled back at him. “We will attack,” he said, “but given the size of the enemy, we should wait for the rest of the battalion, and preferably wait for both battalions of Marines to get on the ground.”

  The general kept screaming, “No, you have to attack now! You have to attack now!”

  Kinh glared at the general with such total disdain that I feared he’d hit him on the spot.

  At this point, I decided to walk away from the confrontation. I didn’t think it was my place to be there as these two Vietnamese commanders were screaming and yelling at each other. My job was to do what I could to help Kinh and the Marines. I knew another American unit was in the area. I wanted to get a fix on them to see if we could link up with them. I also wanted to check to see when the rest of the battalion was going to arrive.