LURES

Was it revenge
That burned with need to send;
Or greed, that thirst,
Or mixed unholy blend?
I cannot grasp
And so I need to ask;
Could she have known
Or sent them to that task?

We stayed at the ARVN compound for nine more days. In the first week of September a typhoon hit the Da Nang area. The rain did not stop until the afternoon of the third day. Late the next morning we left to guard a bridge over the Tu Cau River. The swollen muddy water had jammed uprooted shrubs and other debris against the steel sides of the bridge. My company commander contacted superiors and asked for heavy machinery to remove this natural dam. In the meantime, I found I could walk on the compacted vegetation. Though my feet sank into it to my calf muscles with each step, the dense mass supported my weight. Amazed, I walked from one bank to the other. No backhoe arrived. Unknown to us, explosives had already been placed under the bridge by the enemy. That night, a Viet Cong soldier using a bamboo pole as a breathing tube, approached from upstream. At the leading edge of the floating mass, he began swimming under it. Seeing the bamboo jutting out of the water, a sentry ran from the span to tell the platoon commander of the development. Ordered to throw grenades, he ran back toward his post. Just as his boots reached the structure again, a massive explosion sent much of the center part of the bridge into the air. By the time it stopped falling, a huge gap had appeared in the bridge. We continued with our duty for a week. Many of us felt embarrassed guarding something that had been destroyed.

After duty at the Tu Cau River, my platoon begins to patrol the southeastern part of our tactical area of responsibility. Arranged in a defensive perimeter at night, we sleep under the stars unless scheduled to lay an ambush or man a listening post. In daylight we run squad size patrols. My platoon commander gives me a mission. He tells me that I can choose any four men from my squad to go to a village over a mile away, near the South China Sea. We are to leave mid-morning. The more I think about it, the more anxious I become. Our chances of engaging the enemy are very high. And if we do, we are likely not coming back.

Because the terrain is so open, the Vietnamese will see us from afar. When we sneaked into the village of Bo Ban, there were ten of us. We used darkness to conceal ourselves. In broad daylight five must now go to a village that we can expect to be hostile. I have yet to enter a village that welcomed or wanted Americans. Maybe today will be different. But many villagers will see us. Some are sure to inform the enemy. I feel nervous. My instincts want this mission cancelled, but we will go anyway.

I have yet to enter a village that welcomed or wanted Americans. Maybe today will be different.

Possible negative outcomes seem overwhelming. If the enemy inflicts one serious wound, we become grounded. We are then in imminent danger of being wiped out. We will not leave wounded behind. Because there are few of us, surrounding us will be easy. They will do that quickly. Only if we have enough cover can we buy time with mortars or artillery. Seeing us from a distance, they will appreciate how vulnerable five grunts are. The Viet Cong will conceal themselves and allow us to come close. Then they will strike suddenly and furiously. How long will it take the rest of the platoon to reinforce us? Likely they will have to come on foot, each Marine strapped with his normal load of weaponry. I want nothing to do with this mission. But what I want is irrelevant. Four unlucky men from my squad must go, too. I need to find a way to keep us alive.

Burdened with a feeling of dread, I need to see the positives. I cannot let my “bad feeling” overcome me. My mind might opt for the “booby prize,” being right about how wrong this mission is. We really might die because the squad leader has an acute sense of self-fulfilling prophesy. Getting back depends on the accuracy of my map and keeping our battalion’s 81mm mortar section aware of our situation.

Maps are often inaccurate! Don’t even go there! Find a way! I sit by myself and study our route on the map. Three places look like possible ambush sites. I plot their coordinates. Then I start over and review the patrol route on the map. I agree with my first impression. I need to talk to the one who will aim and fire the mortars. He needs to understand our dependence on his team.

I am able to speak on the radio with the Marine who will target the mortar tubes. Right off the bat I tell him that if the four men of my squad and I are alive tonight, it will be because of him and his men. The man informs me he would like to make that a fact. I give him three sets of coordinates. Then I ask him to examine his map. It should be the same as mine. Referring to the coordinates I gave him, does he think these are the likely places from which we may be ambushed? Does he see others? After taking considerable time, he agrees with me. I then ask him if we can do something that might be out of the ordinary. If we label the three sites, spot one, spot two, and spot three, will he read me back the coordinates when we are on patrol so I can verify them? He says that this is not a problem. I thank him whole-heartedly.

Before concluding our conversation, I remind him that there will be only 5 of us. “I want you to preset each spot and then read me back the coordinates before we move through. If we are not attacked, set up the tubes for the next. We’ve got to be on the same page. Any mistake and we’re dead.” He is eager to support us. Also, I tell him that we may need repeated salvos. “If we have wounded, our rifles, grenades, and your shells will be the only things that keep the VC at bay until the rest of our platoon gets there.” When our communication ends, I feel better about our chances of living. I think about the men who will accompany me. No doubt, Pepe needs to walk point.

We’ve got to be on the same page. Any mistake and we’re dead.

Not long after starting out, we move onto soil unsuitable for farming. Like any flat area near the sea, it transitions from soil to sand as one gets closer. Vegetation “drops off,” losing height, color, and density; becoming brown rather than green. Patches of white sandy soil appear. These increase in size and number, soon joining to squeeze out other plants. I wonder if the ground became salty from waves generated by typhoons or tsunamis. Instead of growing tall and crowding next to each other, plants become sparse. They send out snake-like vines on the sandy surface. These sprout leaves every so often. The thin vines of different plants intersect and overlap each other. They look like pieces of a picture puzzle, though much simpler. This mission is like a puzzle. If we put it together right, we can come home. If not, we get put in a box like unused pieces.

The sparse vegetation leaves us completely exposed. Mostly flat, the ground occasionally rises into dunes that we can use as cover. I feel naked. How can they miss us? Five Marines boldly move right through the middle of their territory. No, they will see us, and when they do, we will look like an insect that needs to be flattened under foot!

Arriving near the first “spot,” I check in with the mortars. A Marine gives me the coordinates of the aimed tubes. They are the same as mine. A grove of pine trees sits to our right front. It can be used to ambush the patrol. We give it as wide a berth as possible. Because we need to move in a more westerly direction beyond the trees, we have to circumvent the danger spot. In effect, the trees become the center of a circle and we must move along its circumference for an uncomfortably long time. Cautious and ready, we keep going. No gunfire erupts from the pines. I thank the mortar man. He tells me they will set up for spot two.

After verifying the second set of coordinates, we move past that terrain. Now more than a thousand meters out, we must go another seven hundred to a village. I am extremely leery of it. If the enemy is there, they will see deluded fools approaching. They will want to kill the arrogant Americans. How can they resist not striking us? Why not set up there? I would.

Before leaving, I thought the most likely position to ambush us lay just inside the forward edge of the village. The VC can use huts and others things to hide. But once there, how do they know which way we will go? Villages spread out. If they place an ambush a little further in and to the right, what do they get if we go to the left? Or, if it spreads way out, we may go straight. Setting an ambush anywhere but right where the trail enters the village cuts down their chances of success. The tubes should be aimed so the mortars fall just beyond the junction of the trail and the beginning of the hamlet.

Pepe stops near the edge of the village and goes to one knee. He and I are having a sort of déjà vu experience.

About two hundred yards from the dwellings, I receive the coordinates back from the 81 crew. We move forward, silently and alertly. I tell myself. You need to relax. Being tight does not help. We do not see anyone. Unless that changes, it is a bad sign. When do the inhabitants all have reasons to leave their village at the same time? Likely Never! The trail ends at a flat area dotted with huts. Pepe stops near the edge of the village and goes to one knee. He and I are having a sort of déjà vu experience.

On the first Sunday in December of 1967, our company entered a village outside of Quang Tri City. It looked deserted. As we moved through it single file, an enemy soldier fired off a long automatic burst. Hidden, he did not aim to kill. We did not engage the enemy in a prolonged firefight. They just wanted to study us. They watched what we did. Crawling into one of the foxholes dug next to the small river that bordered the hamlet struck me as a good idea, but then I thought twice. Maybe it is booby trapped! I believed that had we done so and they had not been mined, they would be the next time we came by. They would bring fire to bear or maybe drop mortars to force us to seek shelter in those holes. Jumping into them would kill us. The absence of people stood out in my memory of that day. The village looked deserted as we approached. It felt spooky in there. Where were the people? They knew shooting would break out. They either had left or had hidden underground.

Now we stand, almost ten months later, at the edge of another hamlet. No one is home. And shooting will not break out? My bones tell me differently. I believe we stand in front of a kill zone. I look to my right. The ground, wide open and flat, offers no protection. I see the village cemetery about 40 yards to our left. The Vietnamese bury their dead just outside their villages in mounds about four feet high and four feet in diameter at the base. They are shaped like bee hives. I see only four or five from where I stand, but they offer protection from rifle fire. If we move into the hamlet we can be cut down in crossfire. The eerie silence gives Pepe a bad feeling. He comes back to me.

“Man I don’t like this. I think they’re just back a little inside the village, waiting.”

“Yeah Pep. I think we’re just outside the kill zone. Don’t worry. We’re not going into it. As you turn around to go back to point, look to your right. There are grave mounds over there. We’re just going to turn 90 degrees and walk to those mounds. Just be cool. They need us to move forward another 20 or 30 yards before they can chew us up.” Turning, Pepe peeks and walks smoothly back to the head of the line.

They call out to Pepe and motion with their arms to come over. They refer to him as “Joe” and coax him to approach.

Two boys about nine years old enter the kill zone from the side farthest from us. They call out to Pepe and motion with their arms to come over. They refer to him as “Joe” and coax him to approach. Five Marines in a line twenty yards long! They are itching to slaughter us! The radioman knows to stay at my side. I turn and ask the last man, “Ready?” I look toward the front of our line and nod my head. We act as one organism. Simultaneously we turn left and begin walking in a straight line. The boys call louder, “Joe! Joe, Dung lie! (Come here)” We take about six steps. A ferocious blast of automatic-weapons-fire breaks out. Immediately we crouch low and run. No one stops to fire. The problem with such a sustained blast of automatic fire is accuracy. If the first bullets do not hit anyone, the rest will likely sail high. That is because the repeated kickback from the explosions inside the chambers makes the rifles rise. Initially they have only one good target because our line is perpendicular to them. All of us sprint crouched over. I have the radio handset to my mouth as I run. Rifle fire might drown out my voice. I yell into the handset as loudly as I can, “Fire the mortars! We’re under attack! Gimme the fire mission!”

We dive behind the graves. The intense volume of fire continues. Bullets slam into the mounds. They make a “thud” sound when they hit. Some strike the edges of the mounds, flicking bits of dirt on or past us. Out of breath, we hunker down. They probably outnumber us two or three to one. Where the hell are the mortars?! They are not going to wait forever to flank us! I do not have to tell the men not to return fire. Common sense tells everyone to keep his head down. It is unnecessary for any Marine to expose himself to try to suppress their fire. Mortars are coming. Aren’t they?! Though it seems like a long time, the mortars finally begin to hiss down and crash directly on the ambush. It immediately impacts the rifle fire. In seconds, no bullets are fired. I do not see individual soldiers, but the mortars drop right in the midst of the smoke rising from their weapons.

The crashing shells are our deliverance! This is the wrong time to overestimate or act frugally. I cannot be more intense. I yell into the handset. “You’re putting it right on them!! There are only five of us! Gimme more! Come on man! Give us another volley! Lay it on them!”

I need to get us out of here. We will not get a better time to go.

The Marines firing the mortars are all too happy to oblige. One after another, 81mm shells crash down right where the enemy has set up. When the mortars stop falling, five Marines carefully watch and wait. No one sees the enemy. Though our ears ring, everything else is silent. I neither see nor hear anything from the ambush site. Our eyes search the area. Only smoke moves. Silence hangs on. I need to get us out of here. We will not get a better time to go. One of the men asks me if we are going to get their weapons. I tell him that doing so can get us all killed. All they need to do is hit one of us so he cannot use his legs and would have to be carried. Their reinforcements might already be on the way.

The men are eager to go. Our eyes fix on the site. Crouching low, some of us get to our feet. We cannot hear a thing from where gunfire roared. Still observing, we begin to stand a little straighter, though everyone remains poised to duck. Silence and stillness soon persuade us to stand upright. The contrast between blazing rifles and exploding mortar shells, and the dead silence seems otherworldly. I expected to be ambushed, but to be left with a big silent “NEVER MIND!” seems impossible. Carefully watching the enemy’s position, we take a few steps back. The smoke dissipates. Stillness dominates. We half turn and begin walking, looking back often to make sure. I am all too grateful to leave them in the silence.

Moving fast, we take an alternate route back, keeping away from foliage. When asked why I called in mortars, I tell my commander we sighted a man with a rifle in the distance and tried to get him. I feel very lucky that things played out the way the mortarman and I thought they would. My squad and I are lucky the graves were located on the side of the village we approached. Foresight and luck decided that we make it back. I did not want this mission. How could they not attack us?

From the book

Eye of a Boot

by Jerry Lilly