Background: Our Marine infantry battalion (2nd BN,
1st Marines) arrived in Vietnam in early
September 1965. Initially, we operated from off-shore on helicopter carriers (SLF: Special
Landing Force) until we came ashore in late December 1965 following Operation HARVEST MOON (USMC Historical Record 58 pages .pdf).
This BN conducted intensive ground combat operations
until April 1971 when it returned to the United States.
The single worst day of my first tour: The date
was Monday, February 28, 1966. It is still a melancholy date for me
each year, and yes, now 58 years later is a long time but that day for me and I'm
sure for many others still alive and as as fresh now as it was back then. It was on that exact same day that I received my first wound – the first of
three wounds I would suffer during my two combat tours.
During this operation, we would lose 18
Marines and one Navy Corpsman killed in action as well as numerous others
wounded (some 30 or so).
All the reports I have read regarding OP NEW YORK say
that we killed over 200 North Vietnamese Army (NVA) soldiers who belonged to a
“fresh unit from North Vietnam that had just arrived in our area of operation”
Phu Bai was not too far south of North-South DMZ that
divided the two countries. Our battalion was in fact the most-northern
combat unit at the time. The NVA had been infiltrating from North
Vietnam and all intelligence reports indicated that they were planning to
attack us in our area, but as it turned out, we struck first.
We were slowly moving north towards the DMZ and would
end up fighting there in July 1966 during Operation Hastings – at that time it was the largest
combat operation.
After that dreadful day, the last day in February and after very
intense battle, I was evacuated to the battalion aid station (BAS) down in Danang for
initial treatment, and from there many of us were flown out to the
joint hospital ship off shore: The USS Repose (AH-8), for more surgery,
treatment, recovery, and such.
I stayed on the Repose for about 40 days, and then I returned back to 2/1 mid-April 1966. Returning was a joyful time for me, being all
healed and ready for duty, but also finding out after I arrived back to Golf Company that I had been promoted to Staff Sergeant, effective on April 1,
1966. That was a big and pleasant surprise.
Here are the honored
names of those we lost on that dreadful day, February 28, 1966:
1. PFC Roger Bulifant, Belleville, MI, age:
18
2. Cpl Henry “Sunny” Casebolt, St. Joseph, MO, age:
24 (later awarded the Navy Cross)
3. PFC Warren Christensen, Hooper, UT, age: 19
4. LCpl Bill Foran, Decatur, IL, age: 20 (died of wounds the
next day)
5. PFC Bill Fuchs, Milwaukee, WI, age: 20
6. Cpl Charley Johnson, Batavia, IL, age: 21
7. PFC Bob Knutson, Norfolk, VA, age: 21
8. PFC Jim Laird, Davenport, IA, age: 21
9. LCpl Larry MacDonald, Detroit, MI, age: 21
10. SSgt Ed McCarthy, Chicago, IL, age: 37
11. LCpl Andy McGuire, Chicago, IL, age: 23
12. PFC Jim McLemore, Knoxville, TN, age: 23
13. LCpl Mark Morgan, San Bruno, CA, age: 19
14. PFC Miguel E. Naranjo, Pueblo, CO, age: 18
15. PFC Richard Nugent, Westwood, NJ, age: 19
16. LCpl Art Pederson, Minneapolis, MN, age: 19
17. PFC Darrell Ray, Olympia, WA, age: 18
18. PFC Jose Torres, Sinton, TX, age: 21
Our unit had held various ceremonies to remember all those
who died that day. I knew almost every one of them dating back to our time at
Camp Pendleton where we trained before deployment. They gave their all as
Marines are proud to say.
I told the story of Operation NEW YORK in my book, (linked on this page) which is
the story the fallen can never tell, so I have tried to tell it for them. This
is as best I remember that day and as I described in my book.
At the time, my old company, Fox Company, had a strength
that continued to dwindle right up to the end of February 1966. By
mid-February, I was reassigned from Fox Company to Golf Company (1st Lt. Charles C. Krulak Commanding
Officer and later in his career he became Commandant and 4-star General).
Fox got beefed up when Marines from Fox 2/7 joined and became
part of Fox 2/1. My move to Golf was not unusual in those days due to NCO
shortages, and since I was a senior Sergeant, I took over a platoon in Golf
Company where they were short Sergeants and officers as well.
Operation New York was one of those famous
quickly-named operations (not well-planned in advance with some fancy name and
lots of units lined up). The kind that was put together in a
short period of time, and usually when events went sour and employment was
needed quickly. Operation New York was no exception to that rule. At any given
time, there were always some major ARVN and PF (Popular Force) units operating
in and around our base at Phu Bai.
Since we were relatively new to that northern area and still
learning the terrain, the ARVN units worked closely with us to help us get to
know the area and lay of the land. The PF units were actually a raggedy bunch (more
like local militia than first rate Army units). They were not well-armed or well-equipped, but they bled and died like anyone else. I give them credit because they
tried hard, and we liked them.
Late in the afternoon, reports started coming in about an ARVN unit
and a bunch of PF's who had engaged a large NVA unit just east of Phu Bai. We were
put on alert, which meant to “stand by” (I
hated to hear that word stand by). What it meant that we might have to go help
them or block for them on short notice. All day we prepared and waited and
waited and prepared all over again right until early that evening when it
looked like we'd have to wait and go the next day. We started settling down for
the night even as reports kept coming in.
I had actually just gone to sleep when around 2200 hours (10
pm) when I was shaken out of my cot and told: “We're mounting out.” Mounting out,
oh, shit I thought - damn, it’s nearly midnight. Midnight or not, we saddled up and moved to
the LZ (a huge empty sandy area where 'choppers would land, pick us up, and
head off to who knew knew).
I remember thinking that we didn't get
much of a briefing except that we were told to expect more after we arrived at
the scene early in the morning. We loaded aboard CH-46 choppers and
took off.
We flew for about 20 to 30 minutes, and then we started
circling for what seemed like a very long time, then we started to descend into the LZ (Landing Zone). This landing as it turned out was a Marine Corps first and classic as we
later learned – the first night any infantry battalion was to attack
at midnight by helicopter.
The landing thank goodness was uneventful, although a bit scary. Two
CH-46's and Sea Stallions (the new, twin-rotor birds that replaced the old
single engine H-34's) hovered overhead with their huge landing lights shining
down below on the rice paddies as the rest of the 'choppers sat down and
dropped us off. That was the most part. I imagined that if there were any NVA below, we would be sitting dead ducks
with all this illumination. All they would have to do is start shooting at the bottom of
the light and follow it up to the waiting birds like a step ladder. There they
were bound to get lucky and hit any one of us. Luckily it did not happen.
Things went very smoothly, actually to the surprise of everyone.
Maybe the NVA had seen us, got scared, and pulled out and ran away. We found out later that we actually hadn't landed very close to where
the fighting was in the first place. That meant we would have to hump there and
attack or block at daybreak. Here we go again – attack at dawn: The Marine
Corps way.
Ironically, our first night assault went off without a hitch, except
for missing a lot of sleep!
We assembled as fast as we could before the last bird flew
away taking the last of the light. It was pitch black and I mean pitch black.
You couldn't even see your hand in front of your face it was so dark. All we
could do was spread out, keep close as possible, set night watches, and try to
grab some sleep as best we could. Daylight was not far away.
At first light, we wolfed down some C-rations; dry brushed
our teeth, pissed, and started saddling up. Then came our new
orders: “Sweep forward and help the ARVN and PF units as needed. They
would do the heavy lifting, we would support and block. End of orders.” Well,
that sounded simple enough.
We would block and shoot VC and NVA as they were
pushed toward us. Hey, no sweat, now maybe we could get revenge for Harvest
Moon. It all sounded easy enough, but I also knew these things sometimes turn
sour quickly.
I thought that the fighting this time would be on our
terms and not on their terms. But, wouldn’t you know it: Murphy
dropped by and decided to screw up things only as Murphy can. He dropped off
one of his famous Murphy laws and totally whacked us! Murphy as everyone knows
always had plenty to say about changing events. Things like, “If it can go
wrong, it will go wrong.” Damn, you Murphy. At the time, I hated
remembering Murphy and for all he stood for.
We had moved about a thousand meters or so without any
resistance and without hearing any gunfire. Maybe the ARVN and PF units were
still asleep, or maybe the NVA and VC slipped away overnight. But, at the same
time, I kept thinking, where in the hell are the ARVN and PF units anyway?
Maybe the NVA and VC didn't slip out at night. Who needed so much help in the
first place? What's really going on here? We kept spread out and kept moving
forward. We were on line and just stopped facing a huge tree line 300-500 yards
ahead on the edge of the fairly dried out rice paddies.
Left to right we had Echo Company, then Hotel Company,
and then my Golf Company, and anchored on our far right flank was my old unit, Fox
Company.
So, on that line we had four Marine rifle companies with
about 400 Marines lined up neat ready to block and kick some NVA ass as I’m
sure we all thought as the VN units pushed them towards us – the plan we had
been told. Lying there, smoking a cig and waiting for a very long time or so it seemed at the time. Still nothing, not a damn thing. Where were they? We heard no air or artillery
fire – nothing – eerie to say the least I remember thinking. We were just 400
Marine “grunts” waiting on God only knew what.
We were enjoying that smoke break when a single rifle shot
rang out up ahead. Everyone hit the deck. Then we looked around at each other
with the same question was on everyone's mind: “What the hell was that? What
did it mean? Who shot at whom?” Many of our eyes asked each other that same
question. What did it mean, if it meant anything? Was it a misfire, an
accidental discharge, or some kind of signal? No one said anything, we just
wondered collectively and stayed alert.
Slowly we got up and started to move slowly forward when the
whole damn place opened up in a hail of bullets. Well then knew where the enemy
was! Some of us hit the deck and started firing straight ahead, others started
running for cover. Many others just fell dead right where they stood. It looked
like another mess in the making. Marines all around were running and falling,
some dead, some wounded, others taking up firing positions. No one was
counting, but the numbers of those not moving seemed to be growing fast. I
raced forward only a few meters. Marines were falling all around me. I stopped,
hit the ground again and continued to fire straight ahead not knowing if my
fire was effective or not.
The enemy fire was intense and from all accounts, very
effective. I saw our choices go from slim to none in a flash. In retrospect, we
had several options: stop, get down and hope for the best; or get down, lay
there and probably get killed; or continue charging onward and die while taking
some of them with us; or, finally run like hell towards the enemy hoping not to die,
and if we made it, take as many of them with us before they took us out.
None of those choices were good ones, but there was no time for debate. All
these thoughts went through my head in about one minute. Any choice, either
way, life and death looked like the only choices following any course of action
we chose. Thanks goodness, I didn't have to make a choice – it was made for
us.
Lying there for only a few minutes seemed like a lifetime,
and then I heard my Lieutenant, Terry Moulton (from New York
City), shout over on my left side.
Moulton leaped up on a paddy dike, pulled out his pistol and
K-bar knife and started screaming something at the time I wasn't quite sure
what. Then his words rang clear. “Fuck this shit, let's go. Charge!”
My first thought was Moulton, you asshole, what the Hell are
you doing? But, it didn't matter what I thought, or what his words were.
We all seemed to be motivated about our predicament at the
same time. We leaped up and started charging and screaming at the top of our
lungs as we headed straight for the tree lines into the withering fire.
Something dramatically happened at the exact moment we started to rush the tree
line, the firing all stopped for a brief moment in time. It was as if shock hit
the NVA all at once and they panicked right there in their trenches as they saw
us screaming and charging straight at them. I know they were stunned because I
was stunned myself.
I continued running and shooting as fast I could while
dodging straight ahead. I wanted to take as many of them with me as possible
before they got me, because surely if I lay there, I was going to die and I thought today was my day on Earth.
I glanced over and saw one of our platoon sergeants, a huge
Hawaiian, SGT. Napoleon (we all naturally called him
Pineapple). As soon as Moulton yelled, Pineapple also jumped up, pulled his
pistol, pointed to the tree line, and started screaming the most blood-curling
things I ever heard, but mostly in Hawaiian. I didn't understand a damn word of
what he was shouting, but I'm sure it was a “Hawaiian blue streak or something
plenty nasty.” Maybe that's why the enemy stopped firing for a brief moment.
But, that didn't last long. No sooner had he shouted at the NVA than they fired
at him and a bullet slit his right index finger.
That was huge mistake, now he was one really pissed. He
started shouting and swearing and pointing all the while he looked around for
part of his finger tip. I don't think he found it, but he kept screaming anyway
and at the same time started his charge toward the tree line again and then the
rest of us joined in without a second thought. It was wild, complete madness
and aggressive. There were many stories about that day and about the way
we attacked that tree line under such heavy fire.
Apparently there had been an Army O-1 Bird Dog spotter plane overhead with
an Army Major working as air and artillery controller, even though things were so close he
couldn't call in air support. I guess he tried several times to get air on
board, but couldn't. He was reported to have said he had never seen anything
like that in his entire life. Hundreds of screaming Marines racing across a
rice paddy with fixed bayonets rushing a tree line filled with machine guns and
NVA. He said it was right out of a war movie. The Marines, he was quoted as
saying were: “Magnificent, simply magnificent.” I think he was right about that
that day. We did do a good job, but it cost us dearly.
In retrospect, I don't know how long that charge actually
lasted, but it seemed like forever. Any amount of time in close combat seems
like an eternity in slow motion at times. At one point, we got very close to
the tree line and could see the enemy dashing back and forth, raising up to
shoot at us then ducking back down before raising up again like those pop up
targets you see at a carnival. Some of our Marines jumped in the NVA trenches
ahead of the rest of us and started hand-to-hand combat. They grabbed the NVA
by the head, neck, or throat and commenced to beat them to death with anything
they had in their hands. Some used their bayonets; others choked them to death
or beat them with their rifle butts. It was something right out of WW II –
something never experienced till that time. We were getting revenge for
the beatings months ago and especially during our bloodbath on Harvest
Moon.
At one point, I managed to crawl up behind a Buddhist grave
where I could take up a good firing position. I continued picking off as many
as I could. Those graves are hard-packed mounds of dirt and sand, were anywhere
from 2-3 feet in diameter to slightly bigger. It provided a good firing
position, but not much cover and almost no concealment, but I didn't care; it fit
my need just fine at the time.
Suddenly I saw a NVA soldier jump up right in front me about
25 yards away and throw what looked like two or three hand grenades straight
toward me.
Just as he threw them, he started to duck back down, but he
never made it. Staff Sergeant Reed from 1st Platoon mowed him
down with a Thompson machine gun he had managed to “borrow” from a Tank crew
member (the Thompson was something the infantry guys didn't normally
carry). Reed got him, but it too late. The NVA soldier got
several of us. He accomplished his mission just before he went off to wherever
NVA soldiers go off to. His two hand grenades got me and several others nearby.
One grenade landed between the legs of one of the Corpsman who was on my left.
I don't even remember his name, he was hurt real bad – and so was I.
I took pieces of shrapnel in my left thigh, left arm, left
shoulder, forehead, and left eye. Oddly enough at the time with all the
excitement and blast and noise from those hand grenades, I didn't even know I
was hit until as I was helping patch up the Doc, I noticed blood on my thigh. I
wiped it off, and as I did, I felt the pain in my leg. Then I felt the other
wounds as well, and then I realized that the blood on me was my own and not the
Doc's as I originally thought.
Funny how fear works in moments like that. I was seriously
wounded and didn’t even know it for a few minutes. After seeing the wounds, I
began to feel them. There wasn't a lot of pain, but still it hurt.
I
think I must have looked worse than I really was with the blood running down my
face and arm and hand. Then I saw my arm I felt that pain but not before. Then
it started to look bad with all the blood even to me. I started to worry
because I didn't know how bad I really was. I didn't know how many other places
I had been hit. I started to feel helpless. Then I thought, it doesn't matter.
I'm alive and that meant a great deal at the time. I got the
“million-dollar wound and I'm going home, I thought!”
The question remained, how in the hell do I get out of here
and go home to enjoy my rebirth. That little matter would take some time
because we still up to our asses in NVA. The worst fighting continued to our
right for some time between Fox Company and the NVA. Their side turned out to
be the center of the main NVA force. Fox like so many other time, ended up in
lots of trouble and suffered lots of casualties. That day, Fox lost 14 killed,
and one WIA who died the next day, LCpl Bill Foran from Decatur, Illinois. Fox
also had the most wounded. In fact, Fox ended up with about 75% casualties.
Many of the wounded in Golf were serious wounds like the Doc and me; others
less serious. I could walk even with my multiple wounds — bad, but not
life-threatening.
Echo Company had one killed. Golf had no one killed and I
still can't figure that out with all the shit that was flying that day. Hotel
Company had one non-combat related death. Their First Sergeant died of a heart
attack in the heat of the battle. A couple of hours into the fighting things
actually slowed down. I didn't know if it was because we killed them all or if
they managed to run away to the rear, or were they regrouping and rearming to
counter attack? As it turned out, we had killed most of them, well over 200 it
was later confirmed (no estimates, real dead bodies). We had beaten the shit
out of two brand new NVA battalions. They had not even seen combat until that
day and we managed to kill most of them.
Two full NVA battalion-sized units hit us, and with only our
small arms, machine guns, knives, and bare hands we killed over 200 of
them. But, as I said, we paid a heavy price. Fox Company was wiped out,
virtually off the active duty rolls. Fox really hadn't been at full strength
since Operation Harvest Moon.
Now, with this operation they were finished. All that was
left was to convert them into one of those small CAC units a few days later.
During the lull, Lt. Moulton ordered me from the battlefield
as the first wave of Medevac helicopters started arriving. I told him no, I was
staying and that I wasn't as bad as I looked. I didn't refuse to go because I
was a hero or anything like that. I wanted to stay and help clean up and kick a
few more NVA asses myself. Although it sounded both foolish and hateful, I
wanted revenge for Harvest Moon just like everyone else. Not only that, but I
saw a couple of the choppers take fire as they approached and I damn sure
didn't want to die in a fiery crash while getting lifted from the battle field,
so I said no, I'm staying because the ground at that point seemed safer than
being in the air. Moulton insisted and he told me to help with the wounded and
get “out of there, now.”
I picked up the Doc and my gear and started crawling back to
where one of the birds was about to sit down. It landed safely and we piled on
and moved to the rear as others were trying to get on. We lifted off and as the
pilot was pulling the nose up and starting to turn toward what I guessed was
Phu Bai, when we took fire.
The pilot was hit, but no one else. Oddly enough, I had a
chance to meet him in a bar one night in Okinawa while I waiting to fly home
months later. His name was 1stLt. Brown. He had been hit in the
upper thigh with the bullet lodging in his groin, and at the same time it
nicked a small piece off his penis. I asked him how he was doing and he said,
“Hey all my parts are working and I'm out here 'test firing' my gun” – he said
with a great big smile while holding a girl on each arm.
As soon as I heard the rounds hitting our 'chopper, I became
more pissed at Lt. Moulton for making me get on the bird. I thought for sure I
was going to burn up in the 'chopper, but alas, it did not crash and did not
burn.
In fact, after a few short bursts from the ground, Lt. Brown
got control and got us back to the rear. We landed safely at the Phu Bai BAS (Battalion
Aid Station).
Those of us not seriously wounded we whisked away to a tent
in the rear to await examination and patching up. I was lying there next to my
old fire team leader and good friend, Cpl. Dave Goodwin (from
Arizona) who had remained with Fox and was now a squad leader. Dave had been
hit by shrapnel too, but appeared to be okay. We both chatted like two old hens
at a tea party about who had been KIA or who had been WIA.
As we talked, medics started bringing the dead in and
carrying them right by us to a temporary morgue in a rear tent. From there, I
had the chance to see the real damage – as our dead started coming in.
Thanks for remembering with me and thanks for stopping by
and never forget.
