| The following account of the action
that took place in Kontum province on June 24, 1966 is as factual as I
can make it, given the thirty five years between the events and this
writing. The reason for writing this account is twofold: fact and fable.
The fact is that a small band of brothers, Recon platoon, 1st
of the 35th, 3rd Brigade, 25th Division
distinguished themselves on the battlefield in the highest traditions of
the U.S. Army to little or no recognition and the fable is that I have
read accounts of this action that were so totally erroneous as to be
written by someone who could not have been there. This is for Sgt Warren
Knepper and his squad.
June 23rd
1700
A static recon mission.
Are you kidding me? It was almost too good to be true. The 1st
of the 35th, the "Cacti" was ordered to fan out along
the Cambodian border in the province of Kontum, hunker down and observe
enemy activity. Each position along the border was to be called a
"cord". Never having seen this term in print, I wasn’t so sure
what it meant. It could have been short for "coordinates" or
short for "cordon". Hell, it may have been the whimsy of some
musically inclined planner and the name was actually "chord". I
don’t know. But there it was. We were all going to go out and hide in
positions along the border day after day and spy on any incidental enemy
troop movements. To a walking grunt, this was a very desirable mission.
I had been in-country
for more than six months, having arrived with the rest of 3rd
Brigade from Hawaii on January 5, 1966. I had been the RTO
(Radio/Telephone Operator) for a Forward Observer in the 4.2 inch mortar
platoon, Headquarters Company, 1/35, which entailed humping an AN/PRC25
radio up the hills, down the hills and around the hills in the aptly named
Central Highlands region of Vietnam. My FO had rotated back to the states
a few weeks earlier and so, for this mission (and the remainder of my time
in Vietnam) I was promoted to FO which meant I had some other poor dumb
grunt carrying the radio for a change.
I was assigned to recon
platoon for this mission which was great because I knew a few guys in the
platoon and it was a very good fighting unit. We called them
"Dog" company because they were often assigned missions that
usually entailed a company of troops. On paper, recon was an oversize
platoon, consisting of some 60 infantrymen. In reality, recon was never
much more than an ordinary infantry platoon in number. Some were wounded,
some were sick, some had rotated home and the replacements hadn’t yet
arrived, others still were on some kind of leave or R&R. So as a unit
recon was nearly always understaffed. Trained to ride in jeeps with
mounted machine guns (like the rat patrol) they found themselves in
Vietnam without any such luxury. If they didn’t fly, they walked. I
mention all this because the fight that they were ordered into on the 24th
of June they were undermanned and under equipped.
I don’t remember how
we got to the positions that we occupied on the eve of the battle. I
assume that we were choppered to a nearby LZ (Landing Zone) and walked,
which was the usual method. The platoon Leader, a lieutenant whose name I
never knew, was not present and I was given to understand that he was off
being paymaster, delivering pay to the sick and wounded in various
hospitals. The acting Platoon Leader was a capable Sergeant, an E-6 or 7,
of Hawaiian extraction.
When we arrived at our
initial location in the late afternoon on June 23, The squads began
preparing fighting positions in a thickly wooded area. I studied the maps
and, with the acting platoon leader’s permission called a fire mission
in to the 4.2 inch platoon to establish a defensive concentration (DefCon)
to our west. If we were hit during the night I needed only to call in that
reference to have the heavy mortar platoon fire a salvo of High Explosive
(HE) shells on that spot. From there I could direct the salvos left,
right, nearer or farther. It was a Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) for
fighting from defensive positions. I carefully studied my map and called
in coordinates that I knew to be at least 500 meters to our west. This
would ensure our safety. The mortar platoon would know the coordinates of
all friendly troops so as not to allow me to fire on some unsuspecting
unit passing by. I received the "on the way" confirmation of a
single round being launched and I waited confidently for the shell to
explode. What happened next shook me to my very core. The round came
rushing in sounding very much like a freight train and landed right
between two of our fighting positions which were about 75 yards apart. The
grunts in the holes sensed their immediate danger and flattened themselves
in their holes just prior to the detonation. I, too, had hunkered down at
the last second and stared at the smoking crater in disbelief. I quickly
checked the map again, then grabbed the radio handset from Herb Daily, my
FNG RTO (FNG = Fucking New Guy) and virtually screamed for some type of
explanation for what clearly could have been a disaster. (No one was hurt
by the shrapnel or debris thrown out by the 35 pound explosive) After
reminding me about radio protocol (I tended to use colorful expressions
when excited) I was told that the round was used to settle the base plate
of the mortar. This was unacceptable for two reasons:
1. Any dumbass
mortarman with more than two hours experience knows that the base plate
will move the mortar tube as it is being driven into the ground, thereby
throwing the round off target by God only knows how far and,
2. My credibility was
instantly shot with these grunts I was attached to, some of whom were
calling me unflattering names during my heated conversation with mortar
platoon’s FDC. (Fire Direction Control)
I advised recon platoon
to get flat in their holes and called for another round on the original
coordinates. This round fell where it was supposed to and I
"walked" two more rounds in closer until I was satisfied that:
1. They were no
longer settling base plates and,
2. I could use the
last shot fired as a registration point in case we were attacked.
The rest of the night
passed without incident.
June 24th 0500
As soon as I awoke, the
salt sweat stung my eyes. It was not even 6:00 AM and already it was
almost unbearably hot. Sleeping arrangements in the jungle were pretty
simple at best. My own preference was to set up a little canopy using my
pancho using strings, stakes and sticks. Then I would roll up in my pancho
liner, a light thermal blanket, and pass out from exhaustion. We slept
fully dressed with our boots on. We would find occasions during the
daylight hours to remove our boots and dust them with drying powders to
protect our feet. At night the boots stayed on, just in case.
The acting Platoon
Leader, Sgt Hawaii I will call him, called a meeting of the squad leaders
right away. Being part of the headquarters element of the platoon, I was
invited to all such councils. Battalion had determined that we were not in
the correct position. We needed to move a couple of kilometers further
west to fill in the line of "cords". This was a little
distressing to the squad members because they had spent so much time the
evening before creating comfortable fighting positions in which they
expected to languish for the next week or so. Also, our meager rations had
diminished to the point that necessitated re-supply. Battalion promised to
re-supply as soon as we had reached the new positions. We grumbled a
little as we "saddled up" but it wasn’t anything that we weren’t
already accustomed to so we checked each others gear, assumed a march
formation that would minimize ambush and moved out.
Sgt. Knepper’s
0600
We moved out of the
heavily wooded area into a region of rolling grassland strewn with large
thickets. The grass was yellow from the blistering summer sun but the base
of the grass was green and sweet to chew on. We took a course that would
allow us the most cover, moving from one island of thickets to another.
About an hour into the move we took a short break to sip a little water
from what was left in our canteens and have half a smoke. In the thicket I
was in there was Sgt Warren Knepprer and a few members of his squad. Sgt.
Knepper was one of the fellows that I knew in recon. I knew him in Hawaii,
before we came to Vietnam. He was a natural leader and well liked by
everyone who knew him. His squad members felt lucky to have him as a
leader in combat.
While we were sipping
water and sucking cigarettes he, Knepper< remarked that he would not
live out the day. We stopped whatever we were doing and looked at him,
waiting for him to drop the punch line of whatever joke he was playing.
Somberly, he repeated his premonition. He even looked a little scared and
that wasn’t even his personality. I remarked that he was full of shit,
that we haven’t even seen a gook for a month. The others threw in their
comforting comments as well. Sgt. Knepper just stared into space. We
welcomed the chance to move out again. The sergeant had given us the
heebie jeebies.
Re-Supply 0700
Shortly after the break
we were moving toward a substantially wooded area when Battalion advised
us that the re-supply choppers were on the way. We replied that we had not
attained our assigned positions yet but we were told to accept the
re-supply enroute. We moved to the grove of trees and when we heard the
sound of rotors we contacted the pilots and advised them that we were
popping a yellow smoke grenade. The pilots located the smoke and two UH1B
Iroquois ("Huey") helicopters landed in short order, sending the
smoke in rapid spirals in every direction. It was remarkable that no
matter where these choppers sat down, in desert or in a grassy field, they
managed to hurl some kind of debris that stung our faces and arms as we
approached.
Quickly, we off loaded
a lot of jerry cans of water and cases of c-rations off of the helicopters
who lifted off as soon as the last ration was relinquished. I remarked to
my RTO, the aforementioned Mr. Herb Daily, that Battalion must be
expecting this hunkered down observation of the border area to last some
time judging by the amount of rations that were delivered. There were so
many, in fact, that we decided to set two guards on the rations while the
rest of the platoon moved to the new positions where we would send back
men to ferry the rations up to us.
I believe it was at
this point that battalion informed us to detach a squad to ambush a
suspicious trail to our northwest. A squad was picked and they moved out,
taking a jerry can of water and a case of c-rations with them. The rest of
us moved off to the southwest to establish the new positions about 800
meters distant.
Two NVA Strollers
0720
As we moved through the
sparsely wooded grassland we came upon a huge field of grassland about 500
meters long and 200 meters wide. As we approached the sparse woodline at
the edge of the field, the point man made a subtle signal and the entire
platoon immediately went flat on it’s collective belly. I saw the acting
Platoon Leader, Sgt Hawaii, crawling up to where the point man was and,
after a few minutes, I crawled up there as well. Sgt Hawaii, kneeling by a
bush at the edge of the field looked at me, pointed toward his own eyes
and then in a direction across the field. I removed my powerful binoculars
from their case and focused them across the field in the direction he had
pointed. There, on the other side, very near the woodline, there were two
NVA soldiers walking, hand in hand. In Vietnam, two men walking and
holding hands was merely a sign of friendship, unlike American custom
which would have branded such a couple as sharing an alternative
lifestyle. The remarkable thing about the pair was that they were carrying
no equipment whatsoever. They were not North Vietnamese troops on the
move, the were bivouacked nearby!
Of course we reported
their presence to Battalion who advised us to recon by fire.
Recon by Fire 0725
I signaled Herb to join
me and I got on the radio and called a fire mission in to the 4.2 inch
mortar platoon. Beyond the two strolling NVA soldiers and to the right,
was a heavily wooded knoll and I used it’s coordinates to fire the first
round. Amazingly, the round detonated in the center of the hill and I
immediately corrected to "drop 100, left 100, fire for effect!".
I was hoping that this would put a six round salvo on or near the woodline
where the two NVA were looking with alarm at the plume of smoke remaining
from the first detonation. To my delight the rounds came in and walked
right down the woodline, 5 meters in and about 50 meters apart. Textbook.
In the midst of the
yellow-orange explosions trees were toppling and tree limbs were spiraling
up into the air. There were also distant screams accompanying the
deafening explosions and we could see brown uniformed people running among
the trees. We were hitting a North Vietnamese unit, sure as hell. I called
for another salvo on the same spot and then moved the next salvo to the
left, hoping to cut off where it appeared the enemy was running. Then I
moved the next salvo to the right of the first and then deeper into the
woodline. I had an inkling that the NVA may have been using the far side
of the little hill for a headquarters location so I sent yet another two
salvos of three rounds each thundering into the far side of the hill.
About this time an Air
Force Forward Air Control (FAC) plane showed up and began to orbit lazily
over the area where the rounds were falling. These pilots were amazing.
They flew low, slow unarmed Cessnas or Piper Cubs and directed artillery
onto targets. Books have been written on their courage. This one reported
that he could observe fifteen bodies in a small clearing, certainly KIA
(Killed in Action). I was still firing barrages and the enemy was still
running and screaming when the Mortar platoon advised me that they were
running low on ammunition and would have to desist until resupplied unless
there was an emergency. So the scene fell quiet except for the tiny motor
on the FAC’s plane. Soon he was nowhere to be found in the sky either.
We reported to
Battalion that we had struck a large NVA contingent and that we were, as
yet, undiscovered. We were feeling pretty full of ourselves when Battalion
called back and ordered us to physically recon the area that was hit by
the shelling. Incredulous, we called back to advise Battalion that there
were significant numbers of enemy troops in the area, trying to intimate
that there were perhaps more enemy troops than our depleted platoon could
handle, if push came to shove. Battalion was unimpressed by our subtle
whining and once more ordered us to physically recon the area. Okey doke.
Another day in the life of a grunt.
Skirting the Field
0745
We assembled and began
to move down the woodline to the end of the field. We would have to walk
along the end of the field (inside the woods, of course) to get to the
other side. We felt that the open field left our left flank unprotected so
we placed a machine gunner, a recent Hungarian immigrant by the name of
Valentine, at the corner of the field so he could shoot across the field
and protect our exposed left flank. Then we began to cautiously traverse
the woods at the end of the field. It was slow going even though the woods
was not that dense. We knew we were about to encounter the enemy and we
were being very careful.
About a third of the
way to the other side of the field we heard an airborne rumbling that
caused us to dive for the ground just as three 105 or 155 millimeter
shells crashed into the woods right on our location. We scrambled for
whatever we could use for cover, in some instances, each other as another
three rounds crashed among us. Sgt Hawaii was screaming on the radio and
was told that it was an errant salvo from an artillery battery. In the
distance I heard the tinny whine of the FAC plane and suspected that the
son of a bitch mistook us sneaking around in the woods for an enemy
concentration of troops and called in the rounds. We dusted ourselves off,
grinned sheepishly at those we had attempted to use as shields from the
whizzing shrapnel and moved on.
At two thirds the
distance to the other side there was movement and shooting up front and to
the right side. I wanted to shoot too but I didn’t know where everyone
was so I just hunkered down and awaited the outcome, one hand on my radio
handset in case this was the "emergency" my mortar platoon would
acknowledge. It turned out that an NVA medic was spotted to our front
right, shot and killed. He was loaded down with packs of bandages and
medicine, none of which would ever do him any good. We searched his
lifeless body for documents and moved on.
The Opposite
Corner, the Fight Begins 0800
When we reached the
opposite corner of the field we encountered a small clearing that ran
nearly a hundred meters back into the woods. Turning this corner to the
left would put us on the opposite side of the field from which we observed
the 4.2 inch mortar fire. To go around this clearing would take time. It
was decided that Sgt Knepper’s squad would dash across the clearing
while the rest of us were prepared to give covering fire if needed. We
were not prepared enough.
Knepper’s squad had
reached the center of the small clearing when automatic weapons fire
erupted from both the right and left side of the clearing. At first it was
about four weapons using an interlacing crossfire concentrated on Knepper’s
now totally exposed squad. They didn’t have a chance. They were struck
down as a group by the hail of bullets converging on them. The rest of the
platoon, still back in the woods immediately began firing into the enemy
positions but to little or no effect. The automatic fire stayed
concentrated on Knepper’s squad, who had no place to hide from the
withering fire. Within minutes the NVA position was being reinforced by
more and more automatic weapons positions probing streams of bullets into
our side of the clearing, seeking out our positions. We were rapidly
forced to back down on our rate of fire for fear of giving our precarious
positions away as well as depleting too quickly our ammunition supply.
I had taken cover
behind a giant anthill that measured some 3 to 4 foot high by 6 to 7 feet
in length. On the left end of the anthill a tree, at least two feet in
diameter was growing out of the anthill itself. I immediately dialed in
the four-deuce (4,2 inch mortars) platoon and called a fire mission based
on the data I had previously used on the far side of the big empty field.
(It was the fars side now that we were on the other side) I don’t
remember the sequence of events that occurred after that except that I ran
the four deuces completely out of ammo then began spotting for an
artillery battery. Even as the salvos crashed into the far side of the
little clearing, the NVA continued to reinforce until our entire front and
to both the left and right were filled with chattering automatic weapons
fire, including a number of dreaded .51 caliber machine guns. Those are
the kind of guns that you can dig in against and they will dig you right
back out.
Sgt Hawaii was on the
horn (radio) with battalion who claimed that a column of infantry had been
dispatched to relieve our beleagured position. 45 minutes later the recon
ambush element arrived to our rear, claiming to have fought their way
through heavy sniper fire. Thus we realized that the NVA were cutting off
our only escape route to the rear. In the meantime, the FAC guy was back
and he and I coordinated a myriad of aerial attacks on the enemy positions
utilizing almost everything in the Allied arsenal. A helicopter gunship
company arrived on the scene and, with 2.75 rockets and miniguns attacked
from South to North on OUR side of the little clearing. That made twice
that we were attacked by our own forces and both times, by some miracle,
we had not suffered a single casualty to the attacks. At different
intervals more aircraft made strafing and bombing runs on the NVA
positions, A1E propeller driven Skyraiders, Navy F4 Phantoms and other
aircraft units were diverted to assist us. The jets dropped napalm so
close that we could feel the searing heat, cluster bombs rumbled noisily
across our immediate front so close that the shrapnel was whizzing through
our positions. In between air strikes The FAC or I would lay down a
barrage of four deuce mortars or artillery. There were several attempts by
the NVA to mass their forces and overrun our positions but each attempt
was thwarted by a combination of aerial bombardment and well aimed rifle
fire.
Alpha to the
Rescue…Sort of.. 1100
During the fight we
were advised by battalion that the infantry column sent to relieve us was
engaged with NVA forces to our south and a subsequent mechanized infantry
relief force was ambushed enroute. At one point, an NVA squad was working
it’s way down the treeline to our left front beside the big field. The
lead soldier was wearing an American army helmet. One of recon’s newer
guys jumped up and waved at them, thinking it was the relief force at
last. The recon squad on our left was not fooled in the least and
immediately began to put effective fire into the NVA force dropping a
couple and causing the rest to scatter back into the wood.
I began to realize what
it must have felt like at the Alamo. We were running precariously low on
ammunition and had completely exhausted our supplies of water and
cigarettes. The sun was implacably beating down from a clear summer sky,
the temperature had to have been over 100 degrees. We had been engaged
with this vastly superior force of NVA for nearly three hours and some of
the men were nervously fingering their "suicide" bullets they
kept in their helmet bands. I’m certain it was because they were going
to need one more bullet to kill one last NVA when they came to get us. A
nearby M60 machine gunner announced that he was now firing his weapon in
one round "bursts".
About this time, when
things could get no worse without our total capitulation, or fighting to
the last man, we were informed that elements of Alpha company were on the
ground near our location and would be joining the fight within minutes.
The NVA tried to mount another attack from our left front but Carlos Lopez
and the boys in his squad fought them off with excellent marksmanship.
Then the point man from
Alpha company arrived at our rear. As it happened, the fellow was a
Hawaiian of oriental descent and his appearance caused a little
apprehension, given the fact that we had already seen the NVA wearing our
equipment. Soon the men of Alpha company began filling into our sparse
ranks, passing around canteens and cigarettes and, oh yeah, extra
ammunition. From my position at the anthill I watched with great joy as
new faces joined us. I noted that there was not enough men to constitute
the entire company, but maybe Alpha was depleted as well.
What happened next was
not only unexpected, but ghastly. The company commander, a captain who was
carrying his M16 rifle by the handle, like a briefcase, walked right up
beside the tree I had been peeking around for three hours and asked our
little group for a situation report. Before we could answer, or warn him,
he was hit several times by automatic weapons fire which knocked him down.
He was flailing so hard with his arms and legs that he actually kicked
himself back upright and was hit again. About eight of us watched in
horror as this happened in the space of drawing a breath. Thankfully, he
was not killed but he was severely wounded and spent the rest of the
battle on a stretcher behind us at the anthill.
It didn’t take long
before we were answering the NVA fire with a very invigorated response.
The NVA countered our additional forces by adding more additional forces
of their own. By this time there were at least three, and maybe four, .51
Caliber machine guns trained on our side of the little clearing. Alpha
company, by crawling in behind us, were now pinned down by the same fire
we had been pinned down by for the last three hours. Nothing changed but
the troop count.
Distasteful Report
1115
With Alpha company came
an artillery forward observation team. The team was comprised of an
Artillery Lieutenant, a Non-commissioned officer (Sergeant) and a PFC who
carried their radio. They are trained to do the same job that I did as 4.2
inch mortar FO only with artillery pieces which results in no differences
in how the job gets done whatsoever. These guys were completely freaked.
(who wasn’t?) The Lieutenant asked who had been calling in the arty and
air strikes. I introduced myself and told him that I had been taking care
of indirect fire support. He told me that I was doing an excellent job and
to carry on. All three of them spent the rest of the fight with their
faces buried in the grass, although the radio operator appeared
embarrassed to be doing so.
Myself and several
others were later debriefed by the Battalion intelligence officer about
this incident although I have no knowledge of what became of the Artillery
Lieutenant or his team. I thought we had been debriefed by Captain Anthony
Bisantz who had assumed the intelligence position after successfully
commanding Alpha Company for six months but in an email conversation with
the Captain just recently I was told that he had been transferred to MACV
or something and was no longer with the 1/35 on or after June 24th.
Maybe the captain who debriefed us just reminded me of Captain Bisantz.
Sometime during
the battle
Things that happened to
me or around me during the fight but I don’t remember when:
Before Alpha Company
arrived, the M60 machine gunner at the anthill position was running low on
ammunition. Someone noticed that there was a hundred round belt lying
behind a tree five or six meters to our left rear. The space between the
anthill and the ammo belt was fairly exposed to enemy fire. I waited for a
lull in the fire and dashed the distance to the tree. The NVA opened up
before I had reached it and I dove headlong the remaining distance. I
gathered up the ammo belt and pressed close to the tree, waiting for the
stuccatto automatic weapons fire to die down once again. The tree afforded
me very little protection and I was petrified to make the return trip. I
wondered if I could just throw the ammo and remain behind the tree for the
remainder of the fight. But I was six meters from my radio and my RTO,
Herb Dailey, was so new that he didn’t know dick about directing
artillery fire or airstrikes. I waited for the firing to die down, grabbed
a deep gulp of air and bolted back to the anthill, the M-60 ammo belt
flying in all directions as I carried it. Again automatic weapons fire
erupted during my run but I arrived at the anthill safe and sound, proudly
presenting the ammo to the M60 gunner. A few minutes later I noticed a
couple of holes in my fatigue pants leg where I had it loosely bloused
above the boot. A bullet had pierced my pants leg during my adventure with
the ammo belt without touching my flesh. This incident was the closest I
came to doing anything "heroic" and I was scared shitless both
ways.
At one point during an
exchange of gunfire, I think this was late in the day, we heard Sergeant
Padilla, in some brush off to our left, say, in an even tone, "Son of
a bitch!" This was followed immediately by a call for a medic. Sgt.
Padilla had been firing from a prone position and had been hit by multiple
bullets in his right chest. The medic, whose face or name I remember not
at all, scampered back and forth across our lines most of the day, often
exposing himself to enemy fire. When we later had to disengage from the
battle, I had a handful of the pancho that we were carrying Padilla in,
and he pissed and moaned all the way out of the battle area about the
rough treatment to which we were subjecting him. If it weren’t for all
the automatic weapons fire and RPG’s that were accompanying us from the
field of battle, his incessant bitching would have been almost funny. Sgt
Padilla later returned to Vietnam as a non-combatant, less one lung.
I don’t remember if
this happened before or after Alpha company arrived, but throughout the
fight I would peek out to determine were artillery rounds or bombs were
hitting in order to give assessments and re-directions to the batteries or
aircraft. This was done mostly at a point where the left side of the
anthill sloped down to the big tree that was growing out of it. The
anthill was well known to the enemy gunners and had taken lots of small
arms fire and RPG hits during the course of the day. Once as I leaned to
peek out I heard a loud explosion by my ear and shards of material stung
my face. My first thought was that an RPG had hit and that my face had
been torn to shreds. I clapped both my hands over my face and screamed for
the medic. I couldn’t lift my hands from my face for fear of seeing them
covered with blood. The medic, once again braving enemy fire, found his
way to the anthill and physically pried my hands from my face. Then he got
about half pissed off for having to make this "house call". It
seems that a .51 caliber bullet had grazed the tree, the ricocheting
bullet passing very near my ear and throwing shards of tree bark into my
face. I had a lot of red splotches on my face but no wounds.
"We gotta get
outta this place…" 1600 or so
As it became late
afternoon and this fight was taking on all the appearances of being
indecisive, someone higher realized that we had to disengage from this
position and withdraw to one that might be more defensible for the night.
It was decided that the best way to withdraw was under the cover of eight
inch artillery bombardment on the enemy positions. Anyone who knows
artillery at all knows that eight inch shells cause a walloping explosion,
a substantial crater and a kill radius of upwards of one hundred feet.
(Maybe more) The M60 machine gunners would bring up the rear to cover the
withdrawal as we bolted, carrying the wounded. I can’t remember who
called the eight inch in, me or the FAC or someone else entirely but when
we got the word that it was on the way all the machine gunners and
grenadiers opened up on the enemy positions while the rest of us grabbed
the wounded and began running through the woods to our rear. The NVA
opened up ferociously as well and RPGs smoked past us in the woods and
trees were being smacked by bullets as we ran past them. The machine
gunners were still firing as they ran, mostly backward, covering our rear
when the small clearing was enveloped by huge explosions as the eight inch
rounds found their marks. The barrage was long and loud and, not
surprisingly, we were no longer being fired at.
The forest was rapidly
darkening as we made our way, without further incident, to the place where
the helicopters had re-supplied us so much earlier in the day that it
seemed like weeks ago. The two troopers we had left to guard the rations
were frantic but glad to see us. They had listened to the sounds of the
battle to their south all day and knew that recon was in a desperate
fight. Coinciding with our arrival were several "medevac"
choppers who whisked the wounded off to emergency hospitals to be treated
within minutes. Alpha company put out a defensive perimeter and almost
everyone in recon collapsed in exhaustion. Seven or eight hours is a long
time to have your adrenalin pumping.
June 25th
0600
When we awoke the next
morning we regarded each other with amazement. The members of recon
(myself included) were a sorry looking lot. Our faces were nearly black
from the accumulation of gunpowder on our sweaty faces. Our eyes were red
rimmed from adrenalin burst capillaries in our eyes. Our fatigue uniforms
were sweat-stained and tattered. No one looked young or cheerful, though
our average age was probably 19 or so. Everyone looked gaunt and had a
vacant stare. It was eerie. Soon we had a further reason to look glum. We
were going back.
When we disengaged from
the battle the day before, we had left Sgt Knepper and his squad in the
little clearing. We simply had no choice. Now we would go and recover the
bodies and fight a whole new battle to do it, if need be. U.S. policy was
to leave no one behind, live or dead. We saddled up, checked each others
gear and moved out.
This time we were in a
company size formation, much more formidable than two or three scant
squads, with UH1D gunships buzzing overhead and predetermined artillery
registrations. It wasn’t long before we began to feel confident and mean
again.
Remember Valentine?
0645
We didn’t. When we
came to the first corner of the big open field, the point man motioned
movement to his front. We bristled with expectation but it turned out to
be Valentine, the M60 gunner we had positioned at the corner of the field
to cover our left flank the preceding morning. Everyone had forgotten all
about him! He was pretty angry about it, too. He had spent the entire
preceding day and night completely terrifyingly alone. He could see the
explosions at the opposite corner of the big field and he had watched all
the airstrikes but was powerless to help us.
Recovering the
dead
June 25th
was a carbon copy of June 24th, weather wise. Hotter than hot,
sun so bright that you had to squint to see without pain and as humid as a
Turkish sauna. We approached the battle area with extreme caution. The NVA
must have called it a day because we arrived without incident, spread a
protective perimeter around and beyond the little clearing we had fought
so desperately over and began to calculate the carnage. I stayed pretty
much in the clearing where Sst Knepper and his squad lay in various
reposes of death. We had hoped, beyond reason I suppose, that perhaps one
of their number was still alive but to no avail. The smell of human flesh
fermenting in the relentless heat was one that I would not soon forget.
Shots rang out from
time to time as searching soldiers in the woods put a round or two into
suspicious NVA bodies. The NVA were famous for feigning death with a
grenade curled up in their hand or some such ruse. As far as I know, all
the bodies that were shot for good measure were already dead. Helicopters
were dispatched to pick up the American bodies and any weapons that we
could collect.
Because I knew him in
Hawaii and held him in high esteem, I helped put Sgt. Knepper’s body
into a body bag. I didn’t know the others, but I knew Warren and his
death had a particularly harder impact on me. He was a brave soldier and a
genuine leader whose men would follow without question.
On the enemy side of
the little clearing we found many bodies and Chinese made automatic
weapons. The number 77 comes to mind though I don’t remember if this was
NVA bodies or automatic weapons although it could have been either. There
were an awful lot of both. There were also many blood trails which
suggested that many NVA dead were removed from the scene by their fellows.
There were enemy telephones and telephone lines present as well. This was
interesting because it implied a very large coordinated enemy force,
regiment or brigade size, perhaps.
Safe Haven
With all the American
bodies loaded and evacuated to a Graves Registration location and the
weapons collected and evacuated to who knows where (minus a few that we
fancied) we returned to the relatively safe haven of the Battalion Command
Post (CP) for debriefing. I can’t remember if we flew or walked but I do
remember our arrival being greeted by the wide-eyed stares of clean shaven
artillery and mortar men. We must have looked like ghastly specters in our
tattered fatigue uniforms and gunpowder smeared faces.
The Rumor Mill
In the days and weeks
following the battle the rumors were flying. All of the survivors of Recon
platoon were to be given the Silver Star, the second highest award for
bravery under fire. Then it was downgraded to a bronze star and finally a
battle streamer for the Company Guide On (The flagpole with unit
designation and battle streamers behind which a military unit marches on
parade).
Epilogue
I had just turned
nineteen when this battle took place. At this writing I am looking forward
to my fifty-fifth birthday in a few months. There has hardly been a day
when I haven’t looked back upon that sun-drenched little clearing with
mixed emotions. It was a defining moment in my life and a day of both
death and glory for the brave troops of Recon platoon. Being attached, I
was not officially a member of Recon platoon but when I think back to my
service and the war I think of the members of recon platoon as my
brothers. Peace be to them all.
Michael Kellermeyer
HHC 1/35th
Inf. (Forward Observer, 4.2" Mortar Platoon)
Jan 1965 to Dec 1966 |