Death Valley (15 page)

They shouldered the rounds again and trudged up to where Delta Company and the Battalion Command Post were consolidating. Wells looked for Dowd but he was nowhere in sight. Grunts said he’d been shot. Wells kind of liked the Old Man and gulped, “Oh, Geez!” as he dumped the mortar shells and jogged to where the casualties were being collected. Dowd was right there among the other dead, a poncho over him and a hole in his head. The casualties were being carried to a clearing for medevac, so Wells took the poncho, rolled Dowd into it, then called for some guys to help. Wells toted the colonel’s pack and grease gun with the two magazines taped end to end.

In the LZ, Wells noticed the colonel’s radioman was waiting in the grass; his face was contorted in great pain from his machine gun wound. On the way back from the LZ to the CP, Wells passed a wounded Marine heading towards the medevac. There was dried blood on his arm and flak jacket, and he was holding his bandaged arm; but he was
grinning broadly, “I finally got one confirmed. It’s all mine and I got him. I got an NVA to my credit now!”

Lieutenant Hord passed within yards of Dowd’s body as he brought Charlie Company into the wood line. His eyes teared. He loved the colonel and had to look away; he couldn’t go over and touch the body for fear he would break down.

Medevacs began coming in. There was no fire.

In India Company, corpsmen were finally getting to the men who’d been stuck for hours in the parched field. One, Cpl James Castor, was gravely wounded and they worked frantically on him. Besides him, four men from India had been killed and sixteen others wounded. Captain Beeler’s hand was bleeding and swollen, and he tucked it in his flak jacket so the troops wouldn’t see it as he moved about. He made sure their prisoner was still alive and had him placed aboard one of the medevacs. Then he turned over command to the new lieutenant leading 3d Platoon, the only officer left. He made sure to have a talk with 3d Platoon’s sergeant first, though; this staff sergeant was the only seasoned leader left and Beeler told him to stick with the lieutenant and make sure everything was okay until they got their two experienced lieutenants back in the field.

At 1800, Beeler went out on the last Sea Knight. Corporal Castor was also aboard and corpsmen kept up their efforts to save him all the way to the 1st Medical Battalion, 1st MarDiv, Da Nang, where he was quickly loaded onto a stretcher and rushed inside. The 3/5 Navy chaplain met them there, and Beeler handed him his asspack full of C rations; he was surprised to discover all the cans had been opened by the Chicom shrapnel. He also asked the chaplain to check on Castor—he died on the operating table.

A Navy surgeon gave Beeler a local, sutured up his neck and hand, then sent him to a ward. He didn’t feel too badly, at least not until a corpsman noticed he was still bleeding from the neck and had him rushed to intensive care. He lay on a gurney and noticed one of his men, Lance Corporal Stewart, beside him. Stewart had tripped the booby trap that morning, but Beeler had not seen him before the medevac came; he was shocked to see that the young man’s leg was gone. After surgery, the Division inspector general and a young Marine came through the ward with a Polaroid camera. The IG presented Captain Beeler with his Purple Heart and the Marine snapped a photo. The IG suggested he
send it home as soon as possible to let his relatives see him smiling from a hospital bed. Hopefully, it would allay some of the fears the telegram would bring. Beeler thought that was a good idea and so did his wife; she still carries the photograph.

In the tree line, Major Alexander had assumed command of the battalion. He’d been with 1/7 only about two weeks, but was on his second tour; three years earlier as a company commander with the 4th Marines he had won the Silver Star. Compared to Dowd, he was a taciturn, businesslike man.

Colonel Codispoti, of course, outranked Alexander but, as was proper, Codispoti let the chain of command take effect. Codispoti was still an observer and a helper, and it was now Alexander’s ball game. He got on the radio to clear up any confusion and to get the battalion moving again. “Youth Six is Kilo. I am Oscar India Charlie. The plan is this: continue to march and we will make it to the river.” There was only token resistance. A few NVA were visible moving through the tree line and Lieutenant Hord, a student of military history, had thoughts of Dunkirk. Alpha Company was waiting for them on the banks of the Vu Gia. As it turned out, the conclusion of the chase more closely resembled one historian’s characterization of the cavalry pursuing the plains Indians: “… like an amoeba each band would divide, divide, and divide again, and again, and once again, leaving a less and less distinct trail, with the result that his blue-jacketed cavaliers never could catch anybody to punish.”

Captain Clark’s Alpha Company did not have the opportunity to machine gun the retreating swarm. In their three days as block along the Vu Gia, they had spotted the NVA only once: a party of six the morning after the initial attack. They killed one. Besides that, all they’d found were booby traps: one USMC KIA, one USMC WIA.

The
90th NVA Regiment
melted into Charlie Ridge.

This was all the victory the North Vietnamese could claim against Dowd’s battalion; to kill fewer than thirty Marines, they had left almost three hundred of their own in the paddy fields. The five companies of the sweep consolidated with the one company along the river before dark. There they dug a huge perimeter. The grunts stripped to the waist to scrape out foxholes amid the high, bright green elephant grass; and there they hunkered down, spent, depressed, elated, glad it was over.
Around them, the sky was a pale twilight blue, clouds streaked low on the horizon; and the river was a wide, crystal blue reflection of the green shore.

Fagan stood with Hord at dusk and said simply but, to Hord, very profoundly, “We’ll never forget this.”

However, it wasn’t quite over.

The night was a Disneyland of pyrotechnics. There was illumination from dusk till dawn, a constant succession of poppings and airborne spotlights floating down. In this stark, flat landscape of black and white elephant grass, an NVA sapper unit crept up to the perimeter. Sergeant Lowery of Charlie Company picked up his second Purple Heart in two days in the first volley: he was sitting with his lieutenant in their little poncho shelter when a Chicom thumped into the ground beside them. There was a brilliant flash, then the realization that almost everyone in the hootch had been peppered with little pieces of metal.

Charlie Company killed two NVA in front of their foxholes, but most of the shooting was on Bravo Company’s side of the line. Lieutenant Weh figured there was a platoon of NVA in the brush, but it was a relatively quiet fight. The NVA only threw grenades and Weh’s Marines sat in their holes under the continuing ilium, firing only single shots when heads or backs rose above the grass. Weh was impressed by his men’s cool marksmanship. So were the NVA. They pulled back and Bravo found seven of their dead at dawn.

On 14 August, 1/7 Marines crossed the Song Vu Gia without incident. The river was wide and shimmered fiercely under the sun, but it was only knee-deep and the grunts forded it in a long, snaking file. They rested their weapons over their shoulders like tramp sticks, let their flak jackets hang open, secured their helmets to packs, and put on covers or bush hats. They were headed home. A dozen Marines dropped their gear on the opposite side and helped their heavily burdened comrades up the bank. Behind them, a contingent from 3/7 Marines had secured Route 4 and was waiting with amtracs and trucks, and food and water. Among them were combat photographers from the Information Services Office, 1st Marine Division, and a dozen civilian journalists with minicams and microphones. By the time Charlie Company crossed the river, they had to file between two columns of Marines to reach the road. The
reporters were behind that line, shouting questions about the number of casualties and the dead colonel, but word was passed not to talk with them until after debriefing.

Lance Corporal Bradley looked at the reporters as if they were vultures. He never saw one in the bush, and was convinced they twisted things to fit their own political perceptions. One kept shouting questions louder than the rest.

“Fuck off!” Bradley snapped.

The convoy on Route 4 deposited the weary battalion to Hill 55. It was time to unwind, rehab, and, for the officers at least, complete the administrative side of every battle. Witness statements for personal decorations were taken; there was talk of a Medal of Honor for Dowd. A score of other recommendations were typed up, and the battalion as a whole was submitted for a Meritorious Unit Commendation, which was later approved. Other duties were less pleasant; there were wounded to be visited.

The detail which came last was the most painful. On 17 August, the battalion held a formation in an outdoor ceremony honoring their dead. American and Marine Corps flags, a forest of battle streamers hanging from the standard, flapped beside a wooden platform. There was a row of M16 rifles in front of the platform, bayonets in the dirt. Twenty-two rifles, twenty-two helmets, twenty-two pairs of jungle boots. Sergeant Major Awkerman—whose father had served with the Marine Corps in WWI, and who himself had landed at Gaudalcanal, Saipan, and Okinawa—read the honor roll.

LtCol John A. Dowd (CO, 1/7)

Cpl John R. Constien (B/1/7)

HM3 Alan W. Brashears, USN (H&S/1/7)

LCpl Joseph G. Sands (B/1/7)

LCpl D. P. Quinlan (B/1/7)

LCpl Fred J. Delarenzo (D/1/7)

LCpl Charles J. Garity (C/1/7)

LCpl Harvey Peay (C/1/7)

LCpl James Cashman (D/1/7)

PFC James R. Rice (A/1/7)

PFC Charles A. Hood (B/1/7)

PFC Benjamin W. Stone (B/1/7)

PFC Joseph Colorio (D/1/7)

PFC Gerald Rios (D/1/7)

PFC Tilmen Bartholomew (D/1/7)

PFC James Braham (D/1/7)

PFC Phillip Guzman (B/1/7)

PFC Stephen Kelly (B/1/7)

PFC Ronald Ray (B/1/7)

PFC G. D. Tate (B/1/7)

PFC W. R. Wilson (B/1/7)

PFC Carlos Baldizon (A/1/7)

The next day, 1st Battalion, 7th Marines got what everyone who’d survived what they’d seen deserved: a rest. One company at a time, the battalion was rotated through Stack Arms, an in-country R and R center within the compound of the 3d Amtrac Battalion on China Beach north of Da Nang. Stack Arms had been opened in June exclusively for the infantry, a labor of love by General Simpson. His motivations were expressed on the wooden sign that hung above the compound gate: “… in recognition and appreciation of the tremendous load these Marines are carrying for Corps and country.”

D Company was the first to Stack Arms and Lance Corporal Wells went with them. They filed in, handed over their weapons, ammunition, gear, and faded jungle fatigues, and getting undershirts and tiger-stripe shorts. Then a gunnery sergeant herded them to an outdoor theater and mounted the stage. The gunny pointed to fifty-five-gallon drums filled with ice and beer and shouted, “Okay, everybody go get a beer!” Wells was swept forward in the pandemonium; then the men settled back onto the wooden benches. The gunny surveyed them tight-lipped. “What’s wrong with you, you’re not really Marines! You only have one beer! I want to see a beer in each hand!” The grunts exploded, shouting, spraying beer—laughing.

Stack Arms lasted three days, three whole days without any duties or lifer harassment. The grunts loved it. They watched movies all night. They showered and shaved in hot water. They played football on the beach. They telephoned home via a communications unit. Some got drunk. Some got stoned. They slept on cots. They ate steak, chicken, hot dogs, hamburgers, drank can after can of beer the first day and opted for soda the next two days. Most overdid it, but it smoothed out the wrinkles. Wells ate so much the first day, he barely ate afterwards. Bradley got drunk for the first time and his buddies dragged him to bed. He woke up, put his trousers on backwards, and ran into the ocean. He managed to wash up before the lifeguards had to dive in. Zotter
watched a buddy careen drunkenly towards a general who was shaking hands and talking with the grunts. The kid stumbled and crashed at his feet. He looked up, “Goddamn, I never got to shake hands with a fucking general before!”

The officer reached down. “Well here’s your chance, son.”

They both laughed, everyone loved it, and the next morning, Zotter found his section leader, Staff Sergeant Gordon, passed out in the barbed wire.

The 1st Battalion, 7th Marines came out of the Arizona on 14 August and rotated its companies through Stack Arms from the 18th to the 25th; on the 20th, Delta Company led the incremental move south to LZ Baldy for another combat operation.

The Americal Division was in trouble.

The command had been trying to preempt this trouble since 20 July, the day Operation Durham Peak began. Three battalions (2/1, 2/5, and 3/5) had been sent into the Que Sons south of the An Hoa Combat Base to draw the
2d NVA Division
into a fight. The op lasted three weeks and claimed the lives of fifteen Marines and seventy-six North Vietnamese. There were numerous important finds, including a large and hastily evacuated NVA hospital equipped with Swedish surgical instruments of the highest quality. The 5th Marines regimental report wrote it up as a victory: “… Although large scale enemy contact was not experienced, Operation DURHAM PEAK was considered highly successful in that it denied the enemy freedom of movement in his normally natural haven. The presence of a multi-battalion force caused the enemy to abandon his numerous base camps and flee to the lowlands north and south.… Numerous large base camps and caches were discovered and destroyed. In addition, valuable intelligence information was gained concerning the Que Son Mountains, e.g. trail networks, base camps, and caves.…”