Vietnam 67 (1 Viewer)

"An Encounter in the Central Highlands," by Suzanne Cogan.

In 1967 I toured Vietnam with the U.S.O. We performed mostly at American bases along the coast that were deemed “secure” by the military. The exception was a visit to an isolated base on a mountaintop in the Central Highlands. When we landed our plane thumped and jittered over huge potholes and uneven terrain, coming to an abrupt stop. Looking out, I spotted the wreckage of similar aircraft.

“This runway is actually too short for this type of plane,” our liaison officer explained. I don’t know if he thought this was reassuring, but I was shaking when I climbed out.

That day we performed two shows on a makeshift platform, the second at twilight. From the stage I could see a tall column of black smoke, curling in the distance.

“What’s that?” I asked one of the soldiers.

“Another plane blew up during takeoff,” he said. “Happens a lot.”

A ripple and turn of heads in the audience. There was a noticeable darkening of mood among soldiers and performers. Those of us in the show ate a somber dinner at the officers club, then went to the noncommissioned officers club to socialize.

I sat in a quiet corner, sipping a Coke. Hanging on the wall, I noticed, was a wood crossbow and quiver made of tree bark. The non-lethal ends of the arrows were fitted with pieces of bamboo.

“Are you admiring the crossbow?” asked a middle-aged staff sergeant.

“I like bows and arrows,” I said. “Ever since I was a kid and fell in love with Robin Hood.”

“Kind of unusual for a girl,” he said. “Mind if I join you?”

“I’d like that,” I said. The guy had a quiet, reflective energy that struck me as unusual in a noncom officer.

“Where are you from?” I asked, the requisite opening question.

“Oklahoma. And you?”

“New York.” I smiled, thinking of home. “How long have you been over here?”

“Several years,” he said. “I re-enlisted. This is my third tour of duty.”

I didn’t know whether to be impressed or to feel sorry for him.

“Do you have a family?” I asked, trying to stick to the suggested subjects.

“Divorced. Two kids. It’s tough on them when you’re away so long. Especially when you’re working in the interior.” He paused. Gave me a quizzical look, as if wondering how much to tell me. I must have passed inspection, since he went on.

“I was a Green Beret,” he said. “I lived with a tribe of Montagnards for several months. That’s what the French called the ethnic non-Vietnamese. That crossbow was given to me by their chief.”

We continued talking for most of the evening. Mostly he spoke about his life in Vietnam, his concern that the Vietcong were more entrenched than ever, that we didn’t seem to be winning the “hearts and minds” of the Vietnamese people. When I looked around, I saw that many of our group had left.

“I should be going soon,” I told him.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I’d like to show you something.”

He removed the crossbow and quiver from the wall.

“Would you believe this very crossbow shot down a Huey?”

“They shot down a helicopter with that?”

“You bet. It takes two men; one to hold it while the other shoots. They have bigger ones for four men that shoot down full-size choppers. They make everything by hand – bow, quiver, and arrows.” He pulled out a single arrow.

“See this? The tip is dipped in curare” – a type of poison – “in case the enemy is still alive. It’s a highly effective weapon.” He paused, as if weighing the crossbow in his hands.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “I’d like you to have this.”

“I can’t take it,” I protested. “It was given to you by a Montagnard chief.”

“Yes. As a gift of friendship.”

“But …”

“This is the first time since I’ve been in country that I’ve felt like a human being. Like – someone’s friend. I want you to have it.” He handed me the bow and quiver.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Consider it a gift of friendship, from me to you. And besides …”

“Yes?”

"I don’t know if I’ll make it back. But you will.” He smiled. “Take good care of it. And be careful of the arrows. They might still be poisonous.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said, fighting back tears.

He kissed me lightly on the cheek and left.

I carried the crossbow and arrows throughout Vietnam and onto the plane that brought me home.

I never saw him again; I don’t know what happened to him. But I still have the crossbow. It hangs on my wall.​

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Suzanne Cogan, left, and Sandy Duncan performing at a U.S.O. Show in Vietnam in 1967.
 
jazzeum said:
"An Encounter in the Central Highlands," by Suzanne Cogan.

In 1967 I toured Vietnam with the U.S.O. We performed mostly at American bases along the coast that were deemed “secure” by the military. The exception was a visit to an isolated base on a mountaintop in the Central Highlands. When we landed our plane thumped and jittered over huge potholes and uneven terrain, coming to an abrupt stop. Looking out, I spotted the wreckage of similar aircraft.

“This runway is actually too short for this type of plane,” our liaison officer explained. I don’t know if he thought this was reassuring, but I was shaking when I climbed out.

That day we performed two shows on a makeshift platform, the second at twilight. From the stage I could see a tall column of black smoke, curling in the distance.

“What’s that?” I asked one of the soldiers.

“Another plane blew up during takeoff,” he said. “Happens a lot.”

A ripple and turn of heads in the audience. There was a noticeable darkening of mood among soldiers and performers. Those of us in the show ate a somber dinner at the officers club, then went to the noncommissioned officers club to socialize.

I sat in a quiet corner, sipping a Coke. Hanging on the wall, I noticed, was a wood crossbow and quiver made of tree bark. The non-lethal ends of the arrows were fitted with pieces of bamboo.

“Are you admiring the crossbow?” asked a middle-aged staff sergeant.

“I like bows and arrows,” I said. “Ever since I was a kid and fell in love with Robin Hood.”

“Kind of unusual for a girl,” he said. “Mind if I join you?”

“I’d like that,” I said. The guy had a quiet, reflective energy that struck me as unusual in a noncom officer.

“Where are you from?” I asked, the requisite opening question.

“Oklahoma. And you?”

“New York.” I smiled, thinking of home. “How long have you been over here?”

“Several years,” he said. “I re-enlisted. This is my third tour of duty.”

I didn’t know whether to be impressed or to feel sorry for him.

“Do you have a family?” I asked, trying to stick to the suggested subjects.

“Divorced. Two kids. It’s tough on them when you’re away so long. Especially when you’re working in the interior.” He paused. Gave me a quizzical look, as if wondering how much to tell me. I must have passed inspection, since he went on.

“I was a Green Beret,” he said. “I lived with a tribe of Montagnards for several months. That’s what the French called the ethnic non-Vietnamese. That crossbow was given to me by their chief.”

We continued talking for most of the evening. Mostly he spoke about his life in Vietnam, his concern that the Vietcong were more entrenched than ever, that we didn’t seem to be winning the “hearts and minds” of the Vietnamese people. When I looked around, I saw that many of our group had left.

“I should be going soon,” I told him.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I’d like to show you something.”

He removed the crossbow and quiver from the wall.

“Would you believe this very crossbow shot down a Huey?”

“They shot down a helicopter with that?”

“You bet. It takes two men; one to hold it while the other shoots. They have bigger ones for four men that shoot down full-size choppers. They make everything by hand – bow, quiver, and arrows.” He pulled out a single arrow.

“See this? The tip is dipped in curare” – a type of poison – “in case the enemy is still alive. It’s a highly effective weapon.” He paused, as if weighing the crossbow in his hands.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “I’d like you to have this.”

“I can’t take it,” I protested. “It was given to you by a Montagnard chief.”

“Yes. As a gift of friendship.”

“But …”

“This is the first time since I’ve been in country that I’ve felt like a human being. Like – someone’s friend. I want you to have it.” He handed me the bow and quiver.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Consider it a gift of friendship, from me to you. And besides …”

“Yes?”

"I don’t know if I’ll make it back. But you will.” He smiled. “Take good care of it. And be careful of the arrows. They might still be poisonous.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said, fighting back tears.

He kissed me lightly on the cheek and left.

I carried the crossbow and arrows throughout Vietnam and onto the plane that brought me home.

I never saw him again; I don’t know what happened to him. But I still have the crossbow. It hangs on my wall.​

View attachment 221900
Suzanne Cogan, left, and Sandy Duncan performing at a U.S.O. Show in Vietnam in 1967.
Click to expand...

Never saw a round-eye female (except tittie mags)in my 13 months.Never'lucky' enough to get shot I guess.
 
Vietnamese American

Clay Risen, the editor of the Vietnam67 section, recently interviewed Thanh Tan, a Vietnam-American journalist who started a podcast this year called “Second Wave,” about Vietnamese life in America.

Clay Risen: Early in your series, you talk about growing up in an America that told one story about the Vietnam War, but living with parents and in a community that told a very different one. How did you reconcile these two? How did this experience shape your identity as a Vietnamese-American?

Thanh Tan: I didn’t have a choice but to alternate between these different worlds, and I still do it today. It’s just part of who I am. I’ve spent my life trying to make others feel comfortable with my dual identities – so I inherently know when to turn on the Vietnamese side and when to be more American.
Since I grew up in a predominantly white community, it wasn’t hard to ignore and play down my Vietnamese heritage. After the age of 12, my parents became so focused on moving forward and juggling their day jobs with the family restaurant business, they didn’t have time to dwell on my lack of understanding about our culture. So I would see things related to the war – like my mother shedding tears while listening to an old pre-1975 Vietnamese song or my dad organizing a “Black April” memorial event commemorating the loss of South Vietnam – but I didn’t know how to process any of it. I guess I dealt with these two conflicting narratives by not really dealing with them at all for a long time – I truly thought the Vietnam War was behind us; that it was my parents’ war and not mine.

Needless to say, I was not proud to be Vietnamese-American. I used to feel it was a burden. Now that I'm older and more aware of how my family got here, I've learned that being Vietnamese-American means embracing a complex history filled with a potent mix of joy, tragedy and redemption.

Looking back, my parents never planned to come to America. They were survivors of one atrocity after another in Vietnam, and finally driven to flee their homeland after the war ended in search of freedom and a better future for themselves and for their children. They took a huge risk by escaping by boat – and they were lucky to survive. Whatever heartbreak and loss they suffered, my parents didn't have time to look back. What does that kind of tragedy and disruption do to a family? In our case, it meant overlooking the pain of being isolated from the rest of our extended family back home, constantly seeking opportunities, and struggling forward – no matter the circumstances.

CR: What was it like growing up as a Vietnamese-American, in a country that had very passionate, and not always friendly, ideas about the legacy of the war and the Vietnamese people? What sort of expectations did people have for you to represent your community, culture and history? Were you ever able to be just a kid?

TT: I didn’t know any better, so I just always thought we had to be grateful and do everything possible to prove that we belonged here. I accepted permanent foreigner status without question and expected myself to succeed in life – no excuses. My penchant for people-pleasing started from a very young age. My parents never fully adapted to the language or American customs, so my sisters and I would help them navigate certain situations. I never expected them to volunteer with the P.T.A. or socialize with the parents of my affluent white friends.

And really, in retrospect, I think I was lucky to grow up in a little liberal enclave like Olympia, Wash. My friends and their parents never made me feel different or unwanted. I only remember this one time overhearing a classmate say to another Vietnamese girl under her breath that she should “go back to where you came from.” So maybe people felt certain things about their Vietnamese classmates, but they certainly didn’t say it out loud. Also, I was so sure that I had succeeded in Americanizing myself, I didn’t worry about not fitting in like some of the other more recent Vietnamese immigrants I went to school with.

Yeah, I think I got to be a kid. I just had to learn to adapt and be independent a little faster than some of my peers.

CR: Your parents fled Vietnam, your father having worked for the South Vietnamese government. So they reflect one Vietnamese narrative, and certainly not the one told by Hanoi today. As you grew up and became exposed to different narratives about the Vietnamese experience, how did your ideas about your family, and the country, and the war change?

TT: I grew up with a very black-and-white narrative: The communists were evil. We – the refugees who fled Vietnam – were on the good and right side of history. I thought we were the victims of a corrupt regime, and that America saved us. Plain and simple. But the truth is so much more complex.
As you can hear throughout the first season of the podcast, particularly with our latest episode about the flag, I’ve had an awakening of sorts. I think its human nature to want to oversimplify the past and believe that there can only be one overarching narrative about a historical event like the Vietnam War. We have to keep this impulse in check.

One of the more surprising aspects of my journey is learning that not everyone in our own family shared the same politics during and after the war. My parents are staunch anti-communists, especially my dad. Members of our family had been supporters of the Viet Minh independence movement, then switched allegiances to the South Vietnamese government. Others followed the Viet Cong into the jungles. Meanwhile, several of our immediate family were killed during the war – by American bombs, by Viet Cong grenades, and so on. All sides have blood on their hands and I’m still trying to wrap my head around all the carnage. What happened? Did these innocent people have to die?

When I think of my parents’ generation, I think of how they were victims of circumstances completely out of our control. The fact that my parents both survived is a miracle, considering they came from a village that was heavily bombed during the war. I have a renewed appreciation for their grit and determination.

In the season finale of Second Wave, I explore this dream I’ve been harboring of moving back to Vietnam. Hopefully, it sparks lots of conversations among Vietnamese Americans and encourages them to look at their own family narratives in a fresh light – and to accept that each person is on his or her own journey.

CR: In your first episode, you interview the author Viet Thanh Nguyen. One of the major themes in his work is that the Vietnam War is perhaps the only war where the losers wrote its history. How can writers and voices from the Vietnamese and Vietnamese-American community change that?

TT: Speak up. Go against the Vietnamese norm of holding everything in! Social media is such a powerful platform.

In all honesty, I think we can change the narrative through understanding and telling more of our own stories. This starts with sitting down to talk to our own families and creating safe spaces for our parents, grandparents, uncles and aunties to share their experiences. Not everyone has a desire to broadcast painful family stories, and that is perfectly okay. But if people do want to share what they’re learning, our team is here to listen and we invite listeners to engage with us via Twitter and Facebook.

Viet Thanh Nguyen’s writing helped me to understand just how much I needed to see Vietnamese stories reflected in the media. I am hoping my podcast has a similar effect on Vietnamese-Americans and all those who interact with our community for a plethora of reasons. Whether they agree or disagree with the things I say in the show – I want us to start talking and realizing that we share a lot in common, and to accept that we’re all moving along at our own pace and comfort level.

CR: One thing I like about your series is that you make clear early on that you're not going to talk just about the war, but about Vietnamese-American culture in all its forms – you have an entire episode about beauty pageants. For readers who might not know much about the culture beyond pho, what do you want to communicate?

TT: At a time when this country is so split over immigration and refugee policies, I believe there are many universal lessons that can be learned from the Vietnamese experience. I like to say that most of us came here from somewhere, but we are so far removed from the first generation that we have forgotten why immigrants come and their contributions to this country. We Vietnamese are fortunate to still be connected to the first wave of people who made it to America, and I don’t want to lose their stories while there is still time to capture them.

Over the last four decades, Vietnamese people have been forced to be these “perfect” refugees and immigrants. We’ve had some success stories, but we’re not a monolith.

Second Wave is my personal effort to understand and embrace my own complexity, with the help of other Vietnamese-Americans.

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Thanh Tan at a live event in Seattle.
 
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"Going to the Wall," by Michael Morris.


During this week leading up to the 35th anniversary of the National Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington on Nov. 11, there will be both festive and somber events planned for the thousands of veterans and others who attend the ceremonies. I will join them, just as I stood among my fellow Vietnam veterans at the original dedication in 1982.

Invitations to be among the dignitaries on that historic day were hard to come by, reserved as they were for high-ranking officials and military leaders like Gen. William Westmoreland, who commanded our troops at the height of the war. Through a bit of subterfuge I had managed to get two of the coveted seats at the ceremony. I wanted to be a witness to history, no less because I had fought and nearly died in that war. But as the day drew near it looked increasingly like I would not attend.

The Wall, as just about everyone today refers to it, has become one of the nation’s most revered and visited monuments, a must see for anyone touring our nation’s capital. Few of those visitors leave with dry eyes after viewing the more than 58,000 names etched into its dark granite.

But it wasn’t always so. In the beginning, the Wall’s design and even its purpose was bitterly contested by many veterans and members of Congress who shared their opposition views. At the time I was just as conflicted, and I swore that I would not accept or ever visit a memorial that seemed, as it was proposed, to be a slap in the face of everyone who served, and especially of those who sacrificed their lives, in that terrible war.

When the Wall’s design was unveiled to the public it didn’t look like most monuments. It wasn’t a gleaming white edifice raised on a platform, like the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which viewers could gaze upon with uplifted eyes. Instead, the lasting monument to our nation’s most divisive conflict in living memory was to be stark black, and it would be built below the surrounding landscape, not elevated above it, as though any trace of the war needed to be shamefully hidden from sight. Instead of bearing a stirring inscription to patriotic glory and sacrifice, only the names of those killed in the line of duty would be inscribed on its granite face — the “victims” of the war, detractors cried, not its heroes.
Some veterans also took offense that its designer was of Asian heritage—a reminder that the first war America fought and lost took place on Asian soil. And the entire monument was in the shape of a “V” — the “peace sign” flaunted by antiwar protesters throughout the 1960s and ’70s!

It seemed the arguments would never cease. Hearings were held in Congress, where angry officials denounced the plans and threatened to halt construction before it was built. The Wall’s proponents persevered, however, and eventually it was built, just as its original design intended.

I was an editor at a consumer magazine in New York City owned by CBS at that time, and at some point I decided that, if the project was going to go forward, I would go with it. Drafted into the infantry in 1966, I had fought and shed blood and watched friends die in Vietnam, and if this black granite Wall was going to be the only monument we got, so be it. I needed to be part of it.

Although I was not in the news division or assigned to cover the ceremony, I used my CBS credentials to gain a press pass to the dedication, and secured a second credential for “my photographer.” This would be my lifelong pal Alan Normandeau. He and I had grown up together, been drafted together, and survived Vietnam together. Our best friend, Ben Bitel, also went to Vietnam with us but was killed in action on April 29, 1968, just weeks before our yearlong tour of duty was to end. Alan escorted his body home. Now, Benny’s name would be on the Wall. If I was going, it was only right that Alan go with me.
Alan refused. For many of the same reasons I had doubts about the Wall, he was adamantly opposed. We argued for weeks in heated phone calls that threatened to rupture the bonds we had formed through friendship and military service. Ultimately, I couldn’t move him, so we left it at that. I told him I would go to Washington alone.

As I packed for my trip the night before the dedication, Alan called. “What time are you leaving?” he asked. I told him I was going to take the earliest shuttle I could out of LaGuardia. There was a pause, as if he was still unsure of what to do, then finally he said, “Okay, I’ll be there.”

I don’t recall all that much of the dedication ceremony (we sat a few rows behind General Westmoreland) or what was said during the speechmaking. But later when we were left to ourselves, silently facing the names etched into the Wall, all the arguments and opposition seemed to evaporate, leaving us awestruck by the peaceful — and respectful — beauty of the memorial. Our national argument over the Wall also ceased almost immediately thereafter.

Over the following 35 years, both Alan and I would visit the Wall many times, each time seeking out the names of friends we knew, like Benny, who are now forever embodied in that monument. It’s become a place of belonging, for them and for us.

At this year’s anniversary ceremony I will take part in “the reading of the names” of every soldier, sailor, airman and marine, every brother, son, daughter, father, mother and friend, who gave their lives in the defense of democracy when their country called. I will stand proudly among those patriots, living and dead, and honor their sacrifice.

As the saying goes, “Some gave some, and some gave all.” The Wall is there to remind us of that.​

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A rose is seen in a pair of combat boots at the base of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial on Memorial Day in Washington, Monday, May 27, 2013.
 
"What Were We Fighting For," by Lawrence Korb, a senior fellow at the Center for American Progress and a former assistant secretary of defense, who spent 24 years in the Navy, active and reserve, and retired as a captain.

In 1965, I was a relatively junior naval flight officer serving in Patrol Squadron One, based on Whidbey Island, Wash. One morning in early July I was awakened by a call from the Bureau of Naval Personnel, telling me to pack my bags and fly to Okinawa and await further instructions. When I asked what was going on, since my squadron had recently returned from a six-month deployment to Asia and I had only one year remaining on my enlistment, the commander said that the war in Vietnam was going to heat up and my enlistment would probably be extended.

In Okinawa, I was assigned to the staff of Patrol Force Seventh Fleet, which oversaw many of the Navy operations gearing up in Vietnam, and boarded a ship headed for Cam Ranh Bay, South Vietnam. During the next year I spent about eight months there on three different ships.

At first I was flattered to be part of what I saw as a vigorous strategy to combat Communist expansion, and felt privileged, as a junior officer, to be assigned to a staff with such significant responsibilities. I was sure that we were doing the right thing, and I was confident that the men I served with and under would go on to lead our country, just like after World War II. But two incidents in 1966 called both those assumptions into question, and have shaped my approach to war and national security ever since.

The first occurred one night when three of us, unarmed and riding in a Jeep, got lost as we were returning from a meeting with Swift boat leaders in the northern part of Cam Ranh Bay. As we wandered around trying to find our way, we came across a Roman Catholic monastery. When we went in, the monks not only fed us and gave us directions but, as we left, asked us why we thought the United States would make out any better in Vietnam than the French had.

The second incident occurred when I went on a Swift boat patrol one night. Swift boats were small, fast, lightly armored vessels used to patrol inland waters. During the patrol, I asked the commander, who was about my age, why he had volunteered for such a dangerous assignment. (You had to volunteer for this. You could not be ordered to do it.) He told me he was from Alabama and believed that if he wanted a future in politics, he would have to play a significant part in the war.

By the end of my tour, it became clear to me that despite all the optimistic reports our staff was receiving, we would not make out any better than the French and that unlike World War II, and the best and the brightest were not the ones who would bear the cost of this deadly and unnecessary war of choice.

To this day I often wonder what that Swift boat commander (if he survived) would think of the fact that many of our nation’s future leaders from our generation – Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Joe Biden and Donald Trump – did not serve in Vietnam. I also wonder whether Mr. Bush or Mr. Cheney, had they served in combat, would still have thought that the Iraq war would be a cakewalk, or whether Mr. Trump would be so willing to increase our involvement in wars and allow the military to decide how to wage them had he not used the bone spur in his foot to avoid service.​

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Marines fire on a coastal village from an American Navy swift boat on the Ca Mao River.
 
"A Day at Khe Sanh," by Arnold Reiner, a retired airline captain, who served as a Marine Corps helicopter pilot in Vietnam in 1966-67.

In the spring of 1967, attacks were becoming more frequent on Marine fire bases along the Demilitarized Zone that divided North and South Vietnam, particularly at the Khe Sanh combat base in the highlands, about 10 miles from the border with Laos. During the monsoons enemy troops stealthily moved down the Ho Chi Minh trail, establishing positions in hills near Khe Sanh. Marines countered their incursion by occupying hills northwest of the base, supplied by a steady stream of helicopters, including my CH-46.

Khe Sanh was a rag-tag base of entrenchments and barbed wire encircling a metal-mat runway, hard-back tents, makeshift latrines, assorted wood structures and an ammunition dump. Its command bunker was buttressed with thick mahogany timbers and smelled like a furniture store. The airstrip was a beehive of activity with four-engine Marine C-130 transports landing with troops and supplies and departing with the wounded and dead. Huey gunship helicopters were always about, circling the hills looking for targets. Twin-engine Air Force C-123 planes, outfitted with sprayers for Agent Orange, also dropped in regularly to refuel.

Rats roamed freely at night, scampering through the tents. Traps did little to cull the population, and we just accepted them as part of the Khe Sanh scene. During the monsoons, low clouds enveloped the base, heavy rain turned rutted dirt roadways into foot-deep quagmires and nighttime temperatures dipped into the 40s.

On March 16th, I was ordered to fly from Dong Ha, the Marine’s main logistic base south of the DMZ, to Khe Sanh. Capt. Russ Verbael commanded the lead helicopter; I was the aircraft commander of the second. By then I had been in-country 10 months, had survived a mountain top crash and was wounded attempting the rescue of a trapped Marine patrol. On another occasion, a Marine infantryman was hit in our helicopter during a troop assault and later died. I had evolved into a pragmatic pilot, careful to fly within aircraft limitations and averse to volunteering for missions with questionable outcomes.

That day, soon after landing at Khe Sanh, we were ordered to med-evac several wounded Marines from Hill 861, where they had established a base. We immediately lifted off and climbed toward the hilltop, which was in plain sight a few miles away.

As was common practice for a wingman, I orbited high as Russ landed and retrieved the wounded. Surprisingly, his helicopter wasn’t fired on. Stationary helicopters in landing zones were prized targets, and enemy gunners rarely passed up such opportunities. I thought, maybe they were out of ammo. It was an easy med-evac pick up and the short flight back to Khe Sanh was uneventful.

Minutes after off-loading the wounded, Hill 861 came under renewed mortar attack and marines radioed for another med-evac helicopter. But Russ’s helicopter developed a mechanical problem. That left my helicopter to accomplish the mission. I wasn’t alone; a Huey gunship was circling the hills trying to spot the enemy mortar position.

We climbed directly to the summit, hoping to land quickly, remove the wounded and depart before enemy mortar crews could react. Marines were dug in, heads down and out of sight, waiting to leap from cover once we landed. Watching from a nearby hill, the concealed enemy must have decided that my 45-foot helicopter was too good a target to pass up. Just as the aft ramp came down my copilot reported mortar shells exploding all over the hilltop. The Marines weren’t about to break from cover in such a barrage, and we were a sitting duck drawing fire. I lifted off, diving into the valley toward Khe Sanh.

Back at Khe Sanh with the helicopter idling by the runway, I radioed the command post that under the circumstances, with the mountaintop zeroed in, a med-evac was untenable. At that point the Huey gunship pilot orbiting about a thousand feet above Hill 861 cut in on the frequency saying he thought he’d spotted the enemy mortar position on an adjacent hill. He suggested I approach from the south, climbing just above the trees out of enemy sight, then hook around the summit and land. He’d make a simultaneous gun run, destroying their position or at least sending them diving for cover.

I was skeptical, but the grunts on the hilltop were in a bad way. I radioed back: “It’s against my better judgment but we’ll give it try.” My copilot, always quick to render an opinion, said nothing. Not a peep out of the crew chief or the gunner either. It was my reluctant call and we were going to make it up and back – or not.

Rounding the summit, I spotted a fairly unobstructed slope near the top. Meanwhile, out of my view, the Huey made its firing run on the supposed mortar emplacement.

The marines broke from cover and rushed the wounded onboard. About 15 were in the cabin when the first mortar round detonated under the helicopter with a concussive blast. More shells detonated all over the hilltop. Instinctively, I yanked the helicopter back into the air. But with all the additional marines bringing the wounded on board the helicopter was overloaded. The helicopter settled back toward the hillside. Fortunately, the hill sloped away steeply and I was able to keep the settling helicopter just above the trees until reaching a cliff. We dove into the valley, allowing the helicopter to regain airspeed and normal rotor speed.

As soon as we landed, corpsmen began removing the wounded. By the time the rotors stopped, only one marine swathed in an arm bandage remained on board. As I walked back through the cabin he looked up and said, “Thank you sir.” I said, “You’re welcome.”

Walking around the aircraft, we discovered over 150 shrapnel holes in the belly and side fuel tanks.
Around this time Maj. Gen. Lewis Walt, commanding general of the Third Marine Amphibious Force-Vietnam, arrived at Khe Sanh in a Huey. He ordered more reinforcements to the hilltop before med-evac missions continued. Marines have a short saying about the order of combat priorities: “bullets, band aids and beans.” Combat comes before med-evacs.

By then Russ’s crew chief had repaired his helicopter and the general was told that the CH-46 was mission ready. Soon Russ was off, with 14 Marines on board, headed for Hill 861. We had about the same number on board when, overloaded, we nearly crashed on the hilltop about a half hour earlier. Now it was about 2 P.M., the warmest part of the day, when air density and lift were lowest.

I noticed a cluster of Marines gathered around a radio communications jeep. They were listening to FM radio chatter from Hill 861 and as I approached one of them looked up and said: “They just crashed.”
Later, Russ said that he had decided to give his copilot some stick time and told him to make the approach and landing. About 30 feet above touchdown on Hill 861, Russ realized the helicopter was descending too fast. Grabbing the controls, he attempted to regain airspeed and lift. But the left main landing gear snagged a tree trunk and the helicopter crashed, rolling over once or twice and coming to rest upside down. They staggered out of the wreckage, shaken up, but amazingly with no serious injuries.

Russ ordered the helicopter’s two .50 caliber machine guns and ammunition removed from the wreckage, along with classified communications equipment. Then they formed up, making their way up the cratered hillside around shattered tree trunks toward Marine positions on the summit. Reverting to their infantry training, Russ’s grunt passengers hop-scotched ahead, taking fixed positions to cover their progress. The trek up the hill took about 30 minutes.

Using his survival radio, Russ contacted Marine A-4 attack jets overhead and directed napalm and bomb runs on the hills. The air strikes were apparently effective; about an hour later a helicopter was able to land and retrieve Russ and his crew.

Our experience that day was the precursor to the Hill Fights, a three-month battle to drive the North Vietnamese Army from the hills surrounding Khe Sanh. The siege of Khe Sanh began nine months later, in January 1968. At the end, after sustaining thousands of casualties, the North Vietnamese abandoned the effort and withdrew. America commanders had had enough as well, and ordered the base closed. Marines gathered their gear, destroyed everything else and withdrew. North Vietnamese troops then returned to the area.​

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First Lt. Arnold Reiner at Dong Ha, January 1967
 
Voices from Dak To

The Battle of Dak To was a rarity in the Vietnam War: a series of set-piece engagements between American forces and North Vietnamese regulars, fought across several weeks in November 1967. It was also one of the war’s largest single engagements: More than 16,000 American and South Vietnamese soldiers squared off against 6,000 North Vietnamese and Vietcong; when the battle ended on Nov. 23, 361 Americans and 73 South Vietnamese were dead, with several hundred more wounded, while an estimated 1,500 North Vietnamese and Vietcong were killed.

Dak To itself was an American Special Forces base in a flat valley in the Central Highlands, near the Cambodian-Laotian border, but the bulk of the fighting took place along the slopes of the surrounding hills, which were known simply by their height in meters – Hill 1034, Hill 830 and so on. Battalions would be taken by helicopter to the base of a hill, fight their way up and then move on to the next. The fighting culminated with the assault on Hill 875, which began on Nov. 19. American and South Vietnamese soldiers, expecting little resistance, instead ran into a network of trenches and tunnels, and an enemy ready to fight. When they finally reached the top, five days later, the enemy had vanished through escape tunnels, leaving little more than a bare plot of bombed-out hilltop. Less than two weeks later, American forces abandoned Hill 875.

To commemorate the Battle of Dak To, the New York Times asked veterans for some of their memories of the engagement.

R. Fred Fish, B Company, Second Battalion, Eighth Cavalry, First Cavalry Division. A single tree, seemingly out of place, marked the far end of the landing zone at the base of Hill 1034. Our squad was on “point.” My squad leader, Leon Kuntz, had to make a choice between Tom Olearnick and me. Tom was chosen. The dark, thick tree line was several meters above as our squad moved up the hill. Tom, on point, entered first and then all hell broke out. The cacophony of automatic weapons broke the silence. I moved to the right flank and the deafening sound increased with addition of M-79s and wholesale sounds of N.V.A. hand grenades raining down upon us, exploding.

Ken Hamburger, pilot, 229th Assault Helicopter Battalion, First Cavalry Division We evacuated the wounded, the walking wounded, and finally the corpses, four or five at a time. The infantry company we were carrying in had an engineer platoon attached to enlarge the landing zone and the infantry soldiers were carrying plastic explosives to knock the huge trees down. They immediately began blowing and cutting trees down, working through the night, and enlarged the hilltop bunker into a decent landing zone by the following morning.

Al Hecker, B Company, Second Battalion, Eighth Cavalry, First Brigade, First Cavalry Division Capt. John Decker informed us that he would not order anyone up the hill, but if anyone volunteered he would lead us. Henry Nylon, a guy named Wayne and I stepped forward. I was behind Captain Decker so the radio would be available to him; Henry and Wayne were to our left. The firepower against us was heavy. Captain Decker shouted that could see the enemy and asked for a grenade. Henry tossed him one. Captain Decker pulled the pin and threw. The grenade hit a tree and bounced back and was heading straight toward Henry. It fell right beside Henry and we were shouting and asking him if he was all right. Henry said he was O.K. Captain Decker got up and scrambled to the ground behind a tree. I dived in beside him. The captain looked around the side of the tree and his head snapped back and his eyes fluttered and his head slumped. He had a hole in the lower part of his neck that was about the circumference of a garden hose.

Thomas Beach, First Brigade, First Cavalry Division I arrived at the base camp for the First Brigade at Dak To. I did not know what unit I was going to be assigned to. There seemed to be a lot of confusion, and of course I was nervous. Makeshift tents, bunkers and sandbag positions, and lots of miscellaneous boxes and crates were scattered around. No one was talking to me, and there was an air of distraction. What was apparent was that everyone was gazing up at a nearby steep, heavily forested mountain and ridgeline that was receiving air strikes and artillery fire. I gradually learned from fragments of conversations of those around me that Company B had been ambushed earlier in the day near the site that was receiving bombardment. Then I learned in hushed tones that Company B’s commander, Captain Decker, a much admired leader, had been killed earlier in the day along with the Second Platoon leader and the captain’s radio telephone operator. The Third Platoon’s point man was also missing in action. It became pretty clear to me where I was going to be assigned, as Company B had lost all its officers who were in the field during the ambush. This added to my belief that being a combat platoon leader was going to be a one-way trip.

John Carrigan, pilot, 119th Assault Helicopter Company At the end of the first day of the assault on Hill 875, the Air Force accidentally dropped a bomb that hit the top of the hill and killed all of the members of the 173rd Brigade’s command team. The situation on the ground quickly went from bad to worse. The soldiers didn’t have many working radios and only a few officers and NCOs still alive. We couldn’t get back into the hill to do a medevac or resupply for three days. Helicopters kept trying to get in, but had no luck and several were shot down.

James Loesch, pilot, 335th Assault Helicopter Company I often think how fortunate I was to be flying above the hellish ground fighting. We saw it and heard it and did our small part in providing support, but if we were lucky, and I mostly was, we went back to our base at the end of the day to a shower and a mess hall and a cot in a hooch and were able to sleep in relative safety. Not the grunts. Those boys were and are the best.

Stephen Greene, pilot, 173rd Airborne Brigade Gen. Leo Schweiter’s after-action report, submitted just 17 days after the assault on Hill 875, dispassionately detailed those battles. The report noted the numbered hills, the fire support bases, the coded map coordinates, even the 88 correspondents covering the battles. The single list noted the losses: 191 K.I.A., 642 W.I.A., 15 M.I.A., one scout dog, 225 M-16 rifles, and even six radio antennas. The report ignored the real toll. It could not show the desperation and extreme courage displayed in abundance. And it certainly did not explain what each of the survivors must live with forever.

Joe Barrera, First Battalion, Eighth Infantry, Fourth Infantry Division I climbed Hill 875 and mopped up a week or two after the big battle. Believe or not, the N.V.A. soldiers were already infiltrating and re-occupying their old positions. This time it was not a long fight, but what nobody knows is that we didn't own 875, even after the huge bloodletting in November 1967.

John Carrigan All those hills around Dak To were brutal, but we got our baptism on 873 and 875. Yes, we know better than most what a bad day was really like.

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Troopers of the 173rd Airborne Brigade crouch behind a tree near the crest of Hill 882 on Nov. 19, 1967

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4th Division troops help their wounded into a helicopter for evacuation from atop Hill 1338 near Dak To in South Vietnam

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At a memorial service held at Fire Support Base 12 in Vietnam Central Highlands, Nov. 25, 1967, five rows of empty boots represent the men who died in the battle for Dak To
 
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Listening to Vietnam -- It wasn't until the author hung out with a group of North Vietnamese veterans that the author understood what the war had meant for their country.
 
"Playing Game," by Nancy Smoter, Nancy Smoyer, author of “Donut Dollies in Vietnam: Baby-Blue Dresses and OD Green.”

Red Cross recreation workers, a.k.a. Donut Dollies, played games. It was our mission, our job, what we were sent to Vietnam to do. We played games in mess halls, on flight lines, in recreation centers, on landing zones, at firebases, along the road — wherever there were G.I.s.

The games were usually a cross between a TV quiz show and a board game. We made them up with themes like sports, cars, the states, travel — and best of all, women. We'd gather the guys together, divide them into teams and then pit them against each other, asking the teams questions as they tried to advance from Point A to Point Z.

Thinking back, I find it unbelievable that we could get these hardened warriors to play these games. For one game we used children's alphabet blocks with which the men spelled out the answer by standing in line holding a block. My favorite part was at the end when I would say, “Do you guys realize that you've just spent the last hour playing with kiddies' blocks?”

In another game we had a board in front and gave the teams the answers on cards that they were supposed to run up and hang on the nails on the board. One guy got so enthusiastic that he impaled himself on the nail, but happily went right on playing. Another time, a guy fell running and hurt his knee so badly that he had to go to the infirmary.

This game-playing took place wherever we could gather a crowd. However, at firebases it wasn't always possible or advisable to get a group together, so we didn't use our “organized” games. Our time there was spent visiting in bunkers, artillery gun pits, serving in the chow lines, wherever there were G.I.s. If the opportunity arose, we had an informal program — literally, a bag of tricks. This consisted of string, rubber bands and flashcards with which we could amaze and mystify the men. This impromptu program, which we called “Women Are Superior to Men,” consisted of feats of strength, coordination and “telepathy” that we used to demonstrate the unequivocal superiority of women.

One of my favorite groups was the radio research unit at Cu Chi. The men were helpful in correcting us when the answers we'd made up were wrong. Another was the long-range recon patrols, or LRRPs, of the 25th Infantry Division, who had great team spirit. We hardly had to do anything other than present the game, because they entered into it with such enthusiasm, egging one another on, harassing, tricking, criticizing and generally raising Cain.

One day when we were there we just couldn't get them interested in any part of the game. It was about “Famous People,” so finally, in order to get their interest, I asked, "Who's the most famous person in your unit?" There was a pause, then a name. I said, "I don't remember him. Is he here?” They said, no, he'd been killed a few days earlier. The game was over. We sat and talked with them until it was time to leave.

The war was never far away. I remember being on a landing zone with men from the First Cavalry Division, where we were playing games and talking to the guys while they waited to be airlifted out to the bush. Within an hour of their departure, before we had left the landing zone, we received word that they had made contact and several had been killed.

Another time we were doing a quick informal program with a unit before they went out on a convoy. The commander interrupted us, saying it was time to saddle up. As we were still gathering the pieces of our game, we heard him telling them that if a vehicle hit a mine to go around it and keep on going because it might be an ambush, that someone else would be along to pick them up. The transition between playing games with Donut Dollies in blue dresses to a possible ambush must have been surreal for them. It certainly was for me.

We also visited in hospitals regularly. Whenever we went onto a ward, we wouldn't leave until we had talked with every man in there. We quickly learned that it was easier to talk with them if we looked only at their eyes and nowhere else. The opening questions were usually the same — what unit are you with, where are you from — but this was enough to start a conversation which could lead away from their wounds and the war. Visiting in hospitals was hard, real hard, but also the most rewarding.

But the best times of all were when we weren't “on,” when we could just stop at a landing zone or in the hospital or at a stand down or eating a meal, and talk to one or two lonely guys, and believe that we had, in fact, made a difference.​

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An American Red Cross hospital field director giving a comfort kit to an injured sergeant in South Vietnam in 1966.
 
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