LETTER HOME … THE QUA SON MOUNTAINS SUCK

Reflection, October 1970, somewhere in the Que Son Mountains, somewhere around 900 feet, somewhere between “we’re screwed” and “they’re screwed”. The mountains run northeast to southwest and borders Highway 1 to the east. The head-shed positioned a major Marine airfield, An Hoa, to the west of the mountains and LZ (Landing Zone) Baldy, a fire support base to the east. Part of the foothills are called Charlie Ridge, a ridgeline extending through the middle of the mountain range. Since it was only twenty miles south of Da Nang, if left unsecured, Charlie could launch “boo-coo” 122 rockets into the Da Nang airfield. Also, whoever controls Charlie Ridge is given adequate terrain elevation to keep an eye on The Arizona, a major Viet Cong (VC) and NVA (North Vietnamese Army) badlands with lots of trouble. Because of the strategic advantage to holding Charlie Ridge, the VC and NVA continually fought to take control and hold certain positions. Lots of Marines and bad guys were killed during these “intermural games”. 

So here I sit, atop a hill on Charlie Ridge in the Que Son Mountains. I know the head shed had a tactical name for this shit hole (Hill 845) and some gay pogue in Da Nang designated it LZ Rainbow, but we called it Vulture. Not for any gungy reason, we just felt like calling it Vulture. Lovely place with steep elevated terrain, thick jungle brush, and monsoon rain beating down so hard you can’t see ten meters in front of your fighting hole. You couldn’t hear Charlie if he crawled into you hole, made you coffee and whispered “Lovie’s” into your ear. As far as keeping dry, never happens during the monsoon season, April through October. Always wet, always cold, always pissed off. So how did I get here?

Spent two days (and nights) sitting on the ramp at LZ Baldy waiting for the helos to take us somewhere. Yea I know, hurry up and wait. We’d catch some z’s by laying down and leaning back on our packs, put our helmets over our face to keep the rain from hitting it, mentally go to a ‘happy place’. The ‘happy place’ usually consisted of the three B’s; Beer, Babes and Boobs. We’d send our cognitive state on an R&R, if only for a nanosecond. Occasionally, the woolgathering would include trips home (or what we called The World). But never would the dreamy delusions include tactical maneuvering or fire support plans. Just needed a break from the war and laying on a Marston Mat, waiting to be delivered to our terminus, provided the opportunity for escape.  

We never know where we’re going until on the aircraft. Two reason for this. One, too many “zipperheads” inside the wire may overhear someone running their mouth as to what we’re up to and telling their VC cousin what we’re up to. Second reason, they stopped opening, reading and censoring our mail in 1969. Without some REMF (Rear Echelon Mother Fucker) censoring our mail, then blacking out what he thought was compromising military secrets, the Colonel thought it best just to keep us in the dark till the last minute. Christ, we may tell someone in Berea Kentucky we’re attacking hill 55. 

You could always count on three things from the Air Wing. One, they would never pick you up if it was raining, you’d sit there in the rain waiting for it to clear. Two, they always dropped you off either in a rice paddy or at the bottom of a hill. If you weren’t wet before you leaped off the ramp, they made sure you were after you crawled out of the rice paddy. As for the bottom of the hill, for some tactical reason the concept was to walk up the hill and catch Charlie at the top. Not sure it ever occurred to anyone that all the gooks had to do was walk down the backside of the hill. And three, could never resupply us with food. We’d get plenty of ammo or C4 but chow seem to be the last thing to make the resupply run. 

The airlift was to an LZ on Vulture that was occupied by another platoon. We’d execute a tactical maneuver called “relief in place”.  The helo’s would land, drop us off and the platoon we were relieving would get on the aircraft. The birds would leave and we’ll lay in place, quietly waiting for Charlie to come into our position to scrounge, (they were hungry too), thinking the Marines have left on the outbound helo’s. Sometimes this would turn into a “target rich environment” but this time, they didn’t take the bait. So, we sent a fire team (four men) down a trail to check things out. Within fifteen minutes, we had contact, a few rounds fired and the fire team came back into our position. They had one kill with two other NVA “didi mauing” down the path away from the contact. We did the usual, stripped the body, “rat fucked” the uniform and pack for any intelligence, take note of any unit patches on the uniform and leave the body in the trail. The NVA would attempt to retrieve the carcass once they were sure it was safe, could be that night, could be weeks. We’d know when the body was snatched as the stench of the dead NVA would permeate the whole mountain side until retrieved. Dead people have a distinct smell. Dead people left in the jungle of Nam for a day or two have a very putrid discernable smell.  We learned a few things from this encounter, Davis was quick on the trigger, and the NVA had at least a battalion somewhere in our AO (Area of Operation).

 We also learned who this unfortunate bastard was. The ID and personal affects we recovered from his body painted a picture of a nineteen year old private first class soldier who recently joined his NVA battalion, the V25 Infantry.  He traveled for six weeks through Cambodia using the Ho Chi Minh trail as a main artery than traversed the numerous mountain ranges to arrive reporting for duty, ready to kill Marines. He had a name but we couldn’t pronounce it and didn’t give a damn, “it don’t mean nothing”. He carried a picture of what could have been his wife, girlfriend or sister. He wore a modest watch on his right hand and a pewter ring on his left index ring finger. Was he married? We didn’t give a damn. He had a partially written letter to someone of significant, he wasn’t sure if it was romantic of platonic. He had two bullet entrance wounds in his chest and one exit hole in the back, just below the left scapular. He was dead, very dead without having the opportunity to kill Marines, “xin loi” sorry about that.

Our current lieutenant was squared away. He could read a map, call in artillery and seemed to make the right decision most of the time, avoiding the stupid stuff some newbies would make. Not too gung-ho but aggressive enough to take the fight to Charlie. Our second night on the hill, he decided we needed a three-man LP (listen post) down a path away from our position. Since it was my turn to lead it, we huddled to start the planning. We looked at the map and decided to setup the LP twenty meters from our perimeter, outside of Sugarbear’s M-60 machine gun position. I picked Daulton and McCarthy to join me in this little outing. Daulton was OK with this nocturnal jaunt down the hill. McCarthy seemed pissed off, but then again, he always seemed pissed off. Honestly, we couldn’t understand his attitude, wet, cold, hungry, someone always trying to kill you and sleeping on the ground in the mud. Really, what’s there not to like. McCarthy needed an attitude adjustment. 

Prior to sunset, we check our gear, ensure correct radio frequencies and the right password/challenge for the day. At nautical twilight, we moved to our exit point, briefed Sugarbear that we would be camped out tonight just in front of his position. If we made contact we’ll be hauling ass back into the platoon area. Put your claymores on safe, don’t be trigger happy and light us up. We again confirmed the password/challenge, this time with the M-60 team and quietly moved toward our evening soiree. Once we had arrived at the predetermined LP sight, we assume a prone position, setup a claymore, took the clacker off safe, turned on our inner “gook” radar and dial up our tympanic cavity and cochlea for max auditory reception. 

Quiet, damn it was quiet. Mosquitoes dinning on any exposed flesh. Didn’t wear mosquitoes repentant on night operations. The “bug juice” would mix with your body sweat and provide a unique odor.  With the right wind condition, Charlie could smell the ambush. So, we just laid there quietly providing a banquet for the gate-crashing anopheles. 

About forty minutes into the pajama party, we heard a noise at our twelve o’clock positon. Could have been a bat, could have been a rock ape (for those of us that believed in them), could have been a sapper with a ten-pound charge of C4 on his way to take out Sugarbears machine gun position. We go from DEFCON 4 to DEFCON  1 in a msec.  Weapons were off safe with fingers gently embracing the triggers, like making a winning putt on the eighteen green in the final round of the Masters (I think). Suddenly, McCarthy lets out a burst of automatic fire, followed by Daulton lighting up the kill zone. I still hadn’t made any visual contact but for now, didn’t matter, we had a firefight. I emptied a magazine and reloaded. We began our rehearsed egress back to the encampment. Daulton first, with cover from me and McCarthy, then Mac. Once they were a few seconds removed, I blew the claymore, tossed a grenade and ran back to our position, faster than “Bullet Bob” Hayes with his 100 meter gold medal win in the 1964 Olympics.

The platoon remained on high alert all night. In the morning, we sent a fire team down the hill to the LP position. They came back with negative contact and no visual signs of enemy action down the hill. We inferred since McCarthy set off the ambush, he was pissed off, but then again, he always seemed pissed off. Honestly, we didn’t understand his attitude; wet, cold, laying on the ground at night, pitch black, mosquitoes feasting on the back of your neck and someone trying to kill you. Really, what’s there not to like. McCarthy needed an attitude adjustment.

Few days would pass without anything of note. Day patrols up and down the mountain side, night ambushes without contact, rock apes (for those of us that believed in them) throwing rocks and rats, as big as small dogs, crawling into your fighting hole to keep dry and look for food. Occasionally a little humor would hit the platoon, albeit macabre, the laughter and ball busting would continue for the rest of our stay on Vulture. Case in point, The Episode of the Blooper Round. The M79 Grenade Launcher got its name, Blooper, from the sound a round would make exiting the barrel, bloop. The Blooper is a single-shot, shoulder-fired, break-action grenade launcher that fires a 40mm grenade. Each fourteen-man squad would have one Marine (grenadier) humping the Blooper and rounds. Harvey was our Blooper Humper. He would carry an assortment of 40mm rounds to include, smoke, illumination, gas and high explosive. The rounds had a spin activated safety feature that would not arm the explosive until it left the barrel, rotated approximately twenty times and travel 15 to 20 meters downrange. This was to prevent the rounds from detonating as they left the barrel, killing the grenadier. This spin activated safety feature would play an important role in Harvey’s life expectancy, Karma and the focal point of this story, and stories to come.  Also provided a cudgel used on Harvey for the next month. 

It was early evening, the time when your eyes would begin transitioning from bright daylight to complete jungle night vision. Some guys would take their red lens flashlight, pull a poncho over their head and try to improve their night vision thinking they were enhancing their “rods and cones”. There was some science in that, pioneered by the air wing flight surgeons, but frankly, I just stared into the dark for a few minutes and my night vision was fine. Because of the gook we kill with our “relief in place” tactics and the action at the LP a few nights before, everyone had their anal sphincter so tight you couldn’t get a spaghetti noodle through it. Tension were high even before battalion sent us a communication on the PRC 77 relaying some intel that Charlie was on the move in the AO. The Lieutenant decided to do a fifty percent watch, four to a position, two would crash and two would be on watch. 

Just before dawn as light was moving across the valley, a sound was heard down the mountainside in front of Harvey’s position. I had the fox hole next to Harvey and saw some shadowy activity inside his position. I awaken the rest of my team and waited to see what was going on with this block party next door. Were they changing of the guard, was someone needing to take a leak or were there honest to goodness “gooks in the wire”. Everyone was quiet, breath holding quiet, cadaver quiets, time to say a Hail Mary quiet. Then we heard it, a voice and a cracking of a branch. Next sound a “bloop”. Harvey had launched a high explosive round from his M79. Three seconds later we heard a thud than a “fuck!”. The shadowy activity in Harvey’s position now seem to be on a chaotic pace, rolling out of their fox hole with a half-mumbled shout “grenade!” Experience would tell you that once the mayday call “grenade” was made, it would shortly be followed by an explosion, killing or maiming anyone that couldn’t get at least ten yards away.

Second passed, no explosion, no AK47 fire, no “gooks in the wire”, only eerie quiet. The Lieutenant came up behinds us and wanted to know “what the hell is going on”. I said, wasn’t sure but looked like Harvey had contact. We both started crawling to Harvey’s position when a crescendo of laughter pierced the morning hullabaloo. “No screaming eagle shit Lieutenant” said Davis, one of Harvey’s hole mates. “Harvey fired off a blooper round, it hit a tree and bounced back into our hole, the shit-for-brains tried to kill me”. It appeared the M79 40mm round didn’t do the required revolutions to deactivate the safety feature leaving the explosive charge safe. The killer round became a dud, hit a tree in front of Harvey’s position and landed next to Davis, where the agog “fuck” came from. 

Now that we discovered the source of this morning’s entertainment and Harvey’s new found religion, what to do with the dud was still an issue. The Lieutenant came up with the perfect answer (I told you he was squared away). He called for a block of C4, detonation cap and det cord.  He cleared the area, place the C4 with assorted widgets next to the dud and lite the det cord. A “fire in the hole” rang around the perimeter. An explosion, followed by shock a wave then an impressive plume of smoke and dirt filled the area.  That was it, time to light up some           C-ration coffee, turn on Armed Forces Radio and listen to the Doors Light My Fire, no shit. Just another day at the office. 

For the next week or so, Vulture was relatively quiet with a few patrols, LP’s both day and night. They dropped of an 81mm mortar team into our position for us to “babysit”. Just another pain in the ass we had to deal with. Provide security for them, feed them and resupply them. In addition, we now have an ammo dump full of high explosive mortar rounds right in the middle of our perimeter. All we need is a sapper getting into the wire tossing a satchel charge into the ammo dump, what a shit storm. The purpose of the mortar tube being moved to Vulture was to support a major operation in the valley. Obviously, we got this tactical information for rumor control, usually more accurate then hearing from the head shed.  This has potential of becoming a “cluster fuck”. The NVA has relatively left us alone since we provided no direct threat to them. Now, we sit on a hill with an artillery spotter raining down mortars in the valley on anything the FO (Forward Observer) sees suspicious. The possibility of someone hitting the lottery back in the world by cashing in on our SGLI premium was very real. The price of poker has just gone up for our platoon. When calling into the rear to check on any resupply choppers, the battalion logistics officer said the helo assets were unavailable due to working the tactical operation in the valley. “Bingo” he just confirmed the rumor mill on a non-secure net, dumb ass loggie.  

We’re going on our ninth day without resupply. We’re good on ammo, frags and of course, piles of mortar rounds. What we’re missing is chow and water. Guys are getting a little bitchy, at least more than usual, about no chow. They’ve working with the water shortage by taping creek water and purifying with Halazone tables. But can’t do much about the unremitting hunger annoyance. Still running our patrols, which takes more energy, which burn up more calories. With no calories in, can only amplify and accelerate the bitchin. 

So what happen? We had two patrols out looking for bad guys and ensuring Charlie didn’t sneak up on our position. The quiescent valley repose was pierce by the humming sound of distant rotor blades. Within minutes they were in view, two CH-53’s helicopters, commonly referred to as “shitters”. We immediately secured our position of all loose gear. A landing helicopters would generate rotor wash that could blow up a small tornadic dust bowl. Damage to men and equipment was possible. The battalion air officer was contacted on the aviation secure freq and asked about the incoming birds. We were immediately advised the inbound aircraft were not for our pos but were landing in the valley below Vulture. One of the active patrols radioed in and asked if the helo’s were landing at our position. They received a “negative”. As the shitters circled to land in the valley, the patrols assumed they were chow resupplies, and queried again if they needed to hump down the mountain to retrieve any provisions. Again, the answer to the patrol was “negative”. 

The first Ch-53 landed in a makeshift LZ in the valley, blowing up dirt creating a brownout. The second helicopter landed shortly behind, again within the brownout. The shitter’s ramps came down and ten Marines on each bird exited to the rear of the helicopters. Ramps came up and the helo’s took off out of the area. Unbelievable as to what happened next. The newly arrived high speed, low drag killer Marines started to pull their equipment out of their ruck sack and sea bags. One by one, sheet music was pulled out of their ruck sack as musical instruments were unassed and place in a formation. Falling in on the formation of instruments, the Marines calmly pick up their melodious arsenal and began calibrating their weapons. Once tuned, they began playing a short program of John Phillip Sousa marches. Since this was the 1^st MarDiv Marching Band, the montane recital was concluded with the Marine Corps Hymn. No screaming shit, I was waiting for the high school football team to come running onto the field. Our ongoing patrols radio in, incredulous as to the music echoing through the valley and indignant that aircraft were available for this jungle concerto but not for chow. The patrol was advised that they were on an open mic and to take it easy on the four-letter words. Once the band finished playing, the Ch-53’s landed, ramp came down and the musicians boarded. The helicopters flew away, probably to a dry racks and hot chow in Da Nang.

The aftermath was a series of “what the fuck just happened”. It got back to us that Division was running a tactical PSYOP (Psychology Operation) mission with marching music during the tactical operation. But being cynical and jaded by months in the “bush”, we all assumed the band members flew in from Okinawa to get a CAR (Combat Action Ribbon) and combat pay. One ten-minute gig in the Qua Son Mountains check off both these requirements. Without a doubt a major FUBAR (Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition). 

Two days later, we retrograded off Vulture, back to the rear.