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  “Okay, I’ll come in and take a day,” I said. I had to admit that a break was tempting; it didn’t seem like there was a hell of a lot going on; and a day was not a long time.

  I had one major concern, however. The company going out was the one commanded by the weak officer. It was actually a good company with good platoon commanders, but the short time I’d already spent with them had given me worries about his competence in a tough situation on his own.

  At any rate, I came in and cleaned up, got my gear squared away, ate a decent meal, got caught up on my mail, and had a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  About midday, I got together with the lieutenant platoon leader to go over the patrol route and review the procedures for our move. This was bad guy land, and we took no chances. I was impressed with this savvy young man; he was mature and proficient beyond his years.

  We met early the next morning at the agreed time and departed friendly lines.

  As we got closer to the company’s position, we heard firing. That was a surprise. There had been no reports of their contact with the enemy; and when I called back to battalion to check, they didn’t have any reports, either. Since it was obvious we had to find out what was going on, we stopped the patrol close to their lines and got hold of the company commander on the radio.

  “I have VC on three sides and am under heavy fire,” he told us. The volume of fire we could hear seemed to confirm this.

  A lot of questions instantly ran through my head: The VC and the NVA were a very sophisticated enemy. They almost always initiated contact—always probing and testing to see how good you were. If you responded and you nailed them hard, they’d break off quickly and fade away. But if they saw they weren’t getting hit hard, they’d press the attack and bring in reinforcements, hoping for an easy kill. My experience was that if we burned them right at the start, they’d break off. No way were they going to get into a pitched battle with somebody who seemed have their stuff together and could get on them quickly with fires. For that reason, I always tried to get artillery and air on them as soon as they hit.

  But that was clearly not happening here. “Why?” I asked myself.

  The bad guys could certainly see that they were facing a good company that was well dug in. But they were not getting pounded. There were no helicopters, observer aircraft, or jet fighters up there, and no artillery slamming in. And when they realized that, they said, “These guys don’t have it together, or else maybe they don’t have access to their heavy stuff. And we have enough forces in position to take them on. Let’s do it.”

  The company had dug in at a deserted hamlet. Because they were surrounded on three sides, the only clear route in was from the west. So we had to carefully work our way around to that side and then slowly close on the company position. The young lieutenant platoon commander handled this tricky move extremely well. We could have easily run into the VC or (just as bad) been mistaken for them and drawn friendly fire, but his coordination and deft handling of our patrol were superb.

  When we finally entered the company lines, the scene was intense. Marines were firing from cover at the attacking and ever-probing enemy. The fighting was at close quarters; the enemy were everywhere. (What I didn’t realize then was that the fighting had also been going on for quite some time. This fact came back to bite me.)

  As I made my way through the mud huts to the company command post, the lieutenant broke off to join his platoon. They could use him . . . and I had a sudden wish that he was the company commander.

  At the command group, several Marines were chattering away on radios propped up against the mud walls of the huts. From what I could tell, the company commander was talking to his platoon commanders and seemed to have the defense under control. Yet I still couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t reported the contact or requested fire support. The fighting was heavy and the VC were obviously working to encircle him.

  About the time I was approaching the command group, the company commander decided to call in artillery. But typically for him, it was an afterthought. He hadn’t given any specific direction to the forward artillery observer, who was—as it happened—confused about our coordinates. As it also happened, I had just checked the coordinates of our position, and when I heard the Vietnamese artillery forward observer calling in the fire mission, it dawned on me that he was giving our location and not the enemy’s.

  I grabbed my radio handset and called a “check fire” back to our U.S. artillery adviser, but was too late. The “shot out” return call indicated rounds were on the way. “Get down!” I yelled, as two rounds whistled in and exploded behind us. Remarkably, they hit in the open to our rear, and the Marines, under cover, were not hurt.

  At this point, the U.S. Marine artillery adviser, our battalion senior adviser, and the task force senior adviser were all screaming on my radio, trying to find out what was going on; and from the activity on their radios, the Vietnamese chain of command was equally energized. I tried giving my command a quick explanation, asking them for time to sort this mess out, but they were not having it. Since they were hearing about the problem from me, I had to be the problem. But at least they trusted me enough to listen to my requests for help, and I managed to get control of things enough to have them bring in an Air Force spotter plane over our position and cancel the artillery mission until I was ready for it.

  Since the company seemed well organized in their defense, I was confident there wasn’t an immediate problem with the maneuver units.

  I then grabbed the company commander and asked him for a heads-up.

  “We’ve been hit three or four times,” he said. “Each time has been harder and from more directions than the last.” Though he had, as I had thought, concentrated on the fight and maneuvering of his units without also reporting his situation or calling in fire support or air observers, I felt I could get these last under control when he hit me with an “Oh, by the way”: “My men are very low on ammunition.”

  At first I wondered when he intended to do something about this (that should have been done long before I showed up), but it was quickly obvious he was dumping the problem on me.

  “How low?” I asked.

  “A few rounds per man,” he answered.

  “Great!” I thought.

  Fortunately, the VC fire was dying off just then. They seemed to be regrouping.

  I immediately put in an emergency request for ammo, which drew more yelling from the rear echelon, who were still on my ass for what was happening.

  “What kind of ammo do you need and how much?” They asked after they’d calmed down a little. But they were still thinking that this should be a “by the book” request. I didn’t have time for that.

  “Thirty caliber, forty-five . . . just get anything you can out here.” The Marines of course had a grab bag of old weapons, and no M-16s. “I can’t give you an ammo request. This is an emergency. We’re down to three or four rounds per man and we’re getting hit hard.”

  This was just minutes after they’d become aware of our fight. So it didn’t sound right to them. You don’t normally get in so much trouble so fast. “Where the hell’s this coming from?” they were asking. It was clear that the seriousness of our situation was not sinking in back there and they thought they had an overly excited lieutenant on their hands. The fact was none of the guys in the rear had enough true combat time to understand the situation; I had more trigger time by then than any of them.

  Meanwhile, I told the company commander to get on his radio and give his battalion a full situation report, and to be accurate and detailed on his ammo status.

  Just then the U.S. Air Force 0-1 Birddog light observation plane came on scene. They were called “Herbies” after their call sign, and we loved these guys. I can’t praise them enough.

  “Thank God for the Herbies,” I thought. I gave him our position and the direction the last enemy contacts had come from, and asked him to check those areas.

  A few minutes later, he
came back up on the net: “You have enemy massing on three sides of you,” he said. “You’ve also got VC on foot, bicycle, and motorbikes all heading your way. I’ll work up an air strike, but you need to get ready for a big hit soon. They may get to you before I can bring in our air.”

  He was right. The VC hit us before the air strike hit them. When they saw the Birddog, I’m sure they knew they had to attack before fire was rained on them.

  When they closed in, the fighting was fierce, but the Marines were careful with their shots. They had to be. During the close-quarters fighting, a few VC broke through. A red hand flare signaled that we had an enemy penetration of our lines.

  At that moment I was concentrating on the Herbie, who was feeding me coordinates for an artillery mission on the enemy positions. My head was pressed against a wall of one of the huts, with a finger plugging one ear and the radio headset over the other. The firing and yelling made hearing difficult. But before I could complete the fire mission, I was spun around by my radio operator, trying to warn me down.

  As I turned, I saw an old man in khaki shirt and shorts with a Thompson submachine gun firing directly at me from about twenty yards away. Fortunately, his rounds were smacking into the mud wall just above my head. But then when I reached for my .45 caliber pistol, my holster was empty. My radio operator already had it and was firing at the old man. So was my cowboy. Everybody was “spraying and praying”; but no one was hit.

  A moment later, the old man’s magazine was empty, and as he tried to put in a new one from the magazine belt around his shoulder, my radio operator and cowboy bolted over and tackled him. They whacked him around a bit, then dragged him over to the wall.

  “Great!” I thought. “Now we have a POW to deal with along with all the problems I’m trying to sort out.”

  As my guys were tying up our prisoner, I noticed the fire dying away. We had beaten back another attack—the fourth. That was the good news.

  The bad news: The company commander came over to tell me that the troops had only one or two rounds apiece remaining. He then gave the order to fix bayonets.

  “Great!” The effect of his order on everybody in the company was chilling.

  At that moment, I got a radio call from a U.S. Army helicopter inbound with our ammo resupply. I gave the pilot a quick brief on the situation: “Come in from the west,” I told him. “Quickly kick out the ammo, and get out the way you came in.”

  Meanwhile, the Herbie spotted the VC regrouping. They were getting ready to hit us again.

  It was looking like a very close call coming up. If we could bring the helo in and get some ammo out to the troops, we might buy time for the air and arty missions to hit.

  The helo came in low and pushed out the crates of ammo. The Marines were on the crates quickly, and runners raced the ammo out to the troops on the line. So far so good.

  But then the helo pilot came up on the net to say he was about to go out to the east to “take a look around.”

  I screamed into the radio: “The east is full of bad guys! Go out west!” But he blew me off and started east. He instantly took heavy fire as he cleared our lines, barely missing him. He then went into a steep climb out of there, with the Herbie pilot cursing him as he flew out.

  The helo pilot then reported to our task force headquarters that I’d led him east and almost got him shot down, which brought the task force advisers down on me like a ton of shit. By then the arty and air strikes were coming in, so I told them I didn’t have time to deal with all that. (They still hadn’t caught on about how bad the situation was.17)

  These hit just as the VC hit us.

  For a tense moment, I wondered if the ammo had made it to the troops, but that worry quickly disappeared: the heavy volume of outgoing fire was music to my ears. By this stage of my tour, I could distinguish the types of weapons firing, whether the firing was incoming or outgoing, even at these close quarters, and which side had the advantage in a firefight. It was clear that we were beating them back and that the air and arty were breaking the VC attack. This was the VC’s fifth and final attack.

  The enemy was fleeing in all directions on every mode of transportation they had, the Herbie reported excitedly. He chased some of them as they tried to scatter away from the air and helo gunship strikes he was calling in.

  Not long after that, we were able to evacuate our casualties and regroup for what we hoped would be a quiet night. Fortunately, it was; and I was able to settle the company commander down and make sure we had a solid night defensive plan. I also spent a lot of time that night trying to explain what had happened to higher headquarters. They were still confused and angry. I was the guy they were talking to, so I was the guy who got yelled at. That’s just the way things are.

  Later that night, I told my radio operator and cowboy that I was proud of how well they had performed under fire. “But we’re going to be getting some shooting practice very soon,” I told them, “and no one is ever to take my weapon!”

  Several months later, the company commander was relieved, arrested for corruption, and jailed. I never got the details, but his departure was no loss to the VNMC.

  IT’S OFTEN hard to think of the enemy as human beings. But sometimes I’d run into a situation that powerfully demonstrated that that is what they are.

  One morning, I went out with another company into the hills west of Highway 1 to block for a 1st Cav sweeping operation. We moved over the crest of some low hills to set up positions above a few small hamlets. As our lead elements began working down the hill toward the villages, they suddenly stopped and gave the hand signal for “enemy ahead.” The Marines quickly and quietly came on line toward the direction indicated by the point men.

  As I came up with the company commander, I could see about seventy-five meters below us a small gathering around a cooking fire among the village huts—probably a family eating the morning meal. At the same time, I noticed two AK-47 assault rifles on the ground next to two young men.

  Just as this registered with me, the people around the fire noticed us. The young men grabbed the weapons and made their way toward a shed or barn, firing as they went. They never made it. The Marines cut them down in a hail of fire. One was hit so many times his body literally skipped along the ground.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the family—women, kids, and old folks—had scattered in the opposite direction.

  We quickly moved down the hill, rounded up the family, and put them in a covered animal pen for safekeeping, while our troops continued searching the area. They discovered uniforms, equipment, and papers belonging to the two young men—including a diary, the work of the senior of the two, a lieutenant in the NVA . . . the one we’d hit so many times by our fire. The other was his assistant.

  Later we learned from the family that the lieutenant was a platoon commander home on leave, and this was his family—his mother, father, wife, and kids. He’d traveled from the west near the Cambodian border back to his home village.

  During our noon meal on the stoop of the family’s house, the company commander and I read selections from the diary and other papers. Soon rain started coming down, so we moved back under the palm frond overhang of the roof.

  The diary was a fascinating and incredibly meticulous account of the young lieutenant’s life as a platoon commander. He seemed to leave out nothing—from personal details about his wife and family, to the money spent on food for his troops, to the money he’d allotted for his troops to hire prostitutes. There were photos of his graduation from the military academy in North Vietnam and photos of his wife and children. He was an idealistic young man, caught up in his cause—as committed to his “faith” as we were to ours . . . a sobering realization.

  As I read, I had a disturbing sense that I was being watched. When I looked up, the family was standing in a shocked, emotionless cluster, like zombies, just staring at me through the rain pouring off the thatched roof of the animal pen where they were confined. Though they were stoic, like all Vietna
mese, their gaze was a powerful judgment.

  There were many dizzying and disturbing moments in this seemingly senseless and confusing war that shook my certitudes. This was one of the most disturbing.

  Zinni was promoted to captain in July. The war had shortened the old time-in-grade requirements.

  UTILITY INFIELDER

  As the advisers’ utility infielder, Zinni never stayed long in one place. Here is how all that traveling broke down chronologically:

  • April 3 to April 21: Rung Sat Special Zone

  • April 24 to May 13, June 20 to August 10, and November 8 to December 13: II CTZ—Operation Pershing

  • May 15 to 19, September 2 to 9, and October 19 to November 15: Capital Military District (CMD)

  • May 24 to May 31: Mekong Delta

  • June 7 to 17, August 11 to September 2, and September 9 to October 10: III CTZ—Jungle

  • October 24 to 30: R & R in Hong Kong

  • December 13: Evacuated to Qui Non

  Zinni saw constant action during his times in II CTZ, but his times in the jungle—III CTZ—were every bit as memorable.

  He operated there for three periods during his tour: for ten days in June (when he was still comparatively green), and for most of August and September. The specific area of operations was called the Ong Dong Forest, a classic triple-canopy rain forest, thinly populated, but containing immense varieties of exotic flora and fauna—elephants, tigers, all kinds of biting insects, poisonous snakes, and other nasties. Operations in the jungle were exercises in survival as well as military operations to find the enemy. Zinni loved it. His most fascinating times in Vietnam were in the jungle.

  He takes up the story:

  Truly, when you’re out there in the jungle, you’re in a strange, new world—a world that feels untouched by humans . . . totally alien. Nothing seems familiar. You have a real sense of uncertainty about what might confront you. There were constant surprises. And even though I went in with savvy, experienced companions, I always felt as though I was on my own. The jungle does that to you . . . it makes you feel solitary.