Death Valley (26 page)

Thirty minutes later, there was a sudden, earsplitting crash outside the perimeter. A grunt bellowed, “Incoming, incoming, incoming!” Goodwin thought it was really a damaged tree that the NVA had shoved down to snap trip-flare and claymore wires, and he hollered, “No, man, that’s an incoming tree!” The tension was released in a burst of laughter down the line. Someone threw a frag towards the shadows.

Two hours later, the NVA dropped mortars around them, and at daylight, they discovered the downed Huey had been stripped of all salvageable gear.

L
ieutenant Turpin of Bravo Company 3d of the 21st Infantry had the point on 20 August. At 0700 he passed word to his men to stay in their holes since artillery fire began pounding to the west. Hill 102 was in the process of turning from green to brown. Mild vibrations rolled back under the grunts. The arty stopped. Marine Phantoms rolled in.

Then Third Herd moved out with third squad on point.

Turpin trusted the third squad. Three weeks earlier, several Vietnamese had been spotted on a patrol and Turpin had radioed Cooper to volunteer his platoon to investigate. The men had crawled along terraced dikes to within thirty meters of a hootch in a lower section; a GI spotted two armed dinks. Turpin positioned Shimer and another grenadier on the trail to cover their attack, then he crept forward with Bob Boyd and Ray Wilcox. The two grunts rushed the hootch, flushing three NVA, and Lieutenant Turpin squared his M16 sights on them. He killed one Vietnamese and wounded another who managed to limp away with the third man. Shimer came up with the rest of the platoon and fired his M79 into suspected escape routes, but it was all over. Turpin summed up the action by recommending Boyd for a Bronze Star and commenting, “He’s the ballsiest guy I’ve ever known.”

In AK Valley, the NVA were ready. That’s why the grunts were spitting out bitter comments the second morning of the battle. Bravo Company had a strict policy of rotating platoons, squads, and even individuals on point. Third Herd had been in the drag position during the previous day’s hump, which meant they had at least another day
before they were supposed to be moved to the front. They’re screwing us, Shimer thought. It was because they were reliable. A lot of guys wouldn’t even raise their heads to return fire, but that was not a problem in his squad. The men were not at all happy with their jobs, but they accepted the reality of what they had to do to survive. When Shimer had first joined them, they had said they had only two rules. They never left a wounded man behind and, if someone got killed because you decided to get stoned in the bush, well, you’d get a body bag too.

Lieutenant Turpin went to another squad first to take the point. They refused. It was not their turn.

Turpin walked up to Sgt Lowry Cuthbert, third squad leader, who argued and complained but then told his men to saddle up. They too argued and complained, but followed orders and moved out single file through brush. They were spaced out with a point man, cover man, Shimer with the M79, and Cuthbert leading the other three GIs of the squad. The rest of Bravo Company followed single file. Two hundred meters out, the thick vegetation gave way to a scrubby clearing around an old hootch. Sergeant Cuthbert got them on a hasty skirmish line but, as they were about to cross, an M79 popped over their heads and exploded to their front. Cuthbert shouted back to Turpin to stop the platoon’s firing. Shimer stood hunched with his buddy Wilcox, pissed that they were exposed and wanting either to press on or to pull back into the trees. He scanned the front for targets, which was proper; however, stopped and exposed, he should have been kneeling or at the prone. But he was too fatigued to get down if they were going to be moving soon, and his mind was working too slowly. The grenadiers in Bravo Company carried their M79s with the breeches open, so they wouldn’t have accidental discharges; anyway, no one would fire over a full platoon. The grenade must have been fired by an NVA. Shimer should have realized that. He should have been flat in the grass. But none of it really registered in his numbed brain.

For that, Shimer became Bravo’s first casualty.

What sounded like an M16 suddenly fired from ten feet behind him. Shimer was kicked in the back, face first into the grass, his half-empty rucksack on his head. There was no initial pain, but instant realization that he’d been hit badly. One round had drilled through his right arm, blowing out bicep and tricep, shattering bone. It hit his ribcage and tumbled horizontally like a ripsaw across his chest. It left a bloody furrow, hit his breastbone, sent fragments into his bronchial tubes, then
punched out the left side of his chest. Shimer could sense all that had happened. He could also feel the blood dripping into his lungs and he knew that could kill him.

But his lungs were filling up slowly. He realized that if he stayed calm, he would live. That’s what he concentrated on.

There had been only one burst of enemy fire.

Everyone had ducked flat, then rushed into position. Some ran to Shimer. Someone got his pack off and rolled him over. Gary Knoll, the platoon medic, was quickly there; he looked like he was going to vomit as he stared down at Shimer, but then quickly went to work. There were shouts that Wilcox had killed the dink in the spider hole. Sporadic shots began cracking past them and everyone got down except Lieutenant Turpin—who always led by example—and his RTO. Turpin looked down at Shimer, called for a dust-off, and told the pilot to be quick, “He don’t look good. He’s gonna die.”

They rolled Shimer into a poncho, and George Beason and Ski, from another squad, hoisted him and started back. They passed the rest of Bravo Company, which was still filing forward through the trees.

Withering fire suddenly burst from the front and flanks.

They set Shimer down at the night pos and Beason crouched with him. The morning cool had burned off and Beason pulled out his canteen for Shimer as the air turned hot and hazy. Beason kept him from passing out. Other wounded were being dragged back. Hueys were circling but not landing until all the casualties had been gathered in one place.

The North Vietnamese had waited until most of Bravo Company had filed unaware into their bunker complex; then they commenced their horseshoe ambush. Bravo was strung out and pinned down. As usual, only a handful were doing the actual fighting. Many of those on point couldn’t or wouldn’t return fire for all the rounds snapping above their prone bodies. The men at the rear of the column were head down in the bushes, unable to fire for fear of hitting comrades ahead of them in the tangle. The fight quickly disintegrated into mass confusion. From his CP, Captain Cooper ordered a pullback to allow firepower to be employed.

From his CP, Lieutenant Shurtz moved men to protect Bravo’s flank and to secure a medevac landing zone. Some of his men volunteered to crawl into the buzz saw to help drag Bravo’s casualties back.

Bravo Company finally inched back into the foxholes of their night position, and Captain Cooper stayed on the horn shouting for air strikes.
Before the Phantoms came on station, one or two medevacs were able to come in for the most seriously wounded. Private Shimer was going into shock; his lungs were heavy with blood and his breath was labored, but he lay there, concentrating on the simple act of breathing. The unarmed medevac descended, a big red cross on its front, and Shimer’s buddy Beason shouted for assistance. Several GIs grabbed Shimer by his arms and legs and heaved him aboard the first Huey as soon as its skids settled in the grass. Fire cracked over the landing zone. Shimer was first aboard, flat on his back on the floor. Others were quickly shoved beside him; then there was the sensation of lifting off. Just then, Shimer felt a whip of heat as a round passed his face, and he saw the pilot jerk in his seat as he was nicked.

Phantoms rolled in after the medevacs.

Bravo Three had taken the brunt of the ambush and PFC Richard Senske, a sharp OCS dropout and acting platoon sergeant, had assumed command. From their point squad, only Lowry Cuthbert, Bob Boyd, and Frank Juarez crawled out physically unscathed. Rick Shimer and Lupe Tobias were wounded.

Ray Wilcox was killed.

Joe Paparello was killed.

Milton Mendoza, a medic who ran up from another platoon, was also killed. All together, Bravo Company lost five dead and twenty-four wounded. Alpha Company also took casualties helping get these men back: three volunteers themselves from PFC Goodwin’s squad—Ralph Poe and two green seeds, Harry and Diaz—were wounded.

Lieutenant Turpin was also shot.

The last medevac had sailed in and out under fire, and the jets were pounding in when Turpin was dragged into Alpha Company’s LZ perimeter with a sucking chest wound. While Cooper directed the air strikes, Shurtz got on the radio to B-TOC to request another medevac. He told the major on LZ Center that the jets were running north-to-south on the NVA bunkers to their front, and a medevac might land behind them in the paddy to the east. The wounded lieutenant was lying twenty-five feet from Shurtz and his RTO, under morphine and tended to by Doc Peterson.

The medevac was refused as too dangerous.

Lieutenant Turpin—Shurtz didn’t know who he was at the time—died in the dirt as the Phantoms dropped delay-fused bombs on the bunker complex.

Bravo died that day, and Alpha melted.

Several grunts came up to Shurtz, jerking the frightened medic along by his collar. One of them spat, “This guy was hiding in a foxhole with his hands over his ears! Keep him with you ’cause if he comes near us, we’re liable to blow him away!” The medic was mentally a million miles away. He wasn’t the only one. Private Goodwin had settled behind a banana tree; at each Phantom pass, the NVA turned their weapons skyward and he rolled behind the tree as bomb fragments slashed the surrounding brush. No resupply choppers could get through this crossfire, and Goodwin was down to half a canteen and a single bandolier of rifle ammunition. Most of the green seeds were completely out of water. Goodwin wouldn’t share his when they asked, but he did suggest they use their machetes to get into the banana trees and chew the tart but moist meat. Others were going a little crazy in the sunbake. They licked sweat from their arms, which only made them retch. Some stripped bark from the trees to eat. Everyone was almost out of food.

Finally, a water detail was organized; on Shurtz’s map, a well was indicated to the east along the route Bravo Company had humped in on the day before. The detail set out and was gone too long. Shurtz was extremely worried, until the GIs finally came back and reported that NVA were refilling canteens from the well when they got there. They laid low and snuck up to the well after the enemy moved on. As if to confirm that the North Vietnamese were everywhere in AK Valley, as A and B/3–21 shored up their perimeter, a platoon from C/3–21 was CA’d behind them atop Nui Lon and almost immediately came under mortar fire.

While B/3–21 was being mauled, D/4—31 to the west—three days under fire, and Captain Whittecar, two days back in command—finally got their respite. Helicopters were able to shuttle in resupplies of food, water, and ammunition and take out the last of the wounded. By that time, the medics in Delta Company were using fatigue shirts for bandages. The dead went out last in body bags. One Huey took fire ascending LZ West’s mountain, banked sharply, and a body fell out and crashed through the jungle canopy. He was later located.

Then came Delta’s first quiet night. At 0500, however, a trip flare burst outside the perimeter and M16s chopped at the grass until 81mm mortar fire was directed in. At 0630, several RPGs were fired, but they exploded short of the ring of foxholes. Five minutes later, Charlie
Company’s side of the perimeter came under heavy fire. It was returned. At 0700, the Blue Ghost Cobras came on station, pumping rockets and miniguns around the perimeter amid a crossfire of 12.7mm and AK47 tracers. It was enough to quiet the NVA, and at 0800 on 21 August, Delta Company, 4th Battalion, 31st Infantry, left the Song Chang Valley. The Cobras fired cover as the Hueys shuttled the GIs up to LZ West.

Whittecar and his command group were on the last chopper out; it was no less than a great relief. It was also the end of Whittecar’s command; within days, he was medevacked to Chu Lai with infected wounds.

In the aid station on West, Doc Kinman probed Whittecar’s leg for more shrapnel, but there was none and he began to bandage it. Whittecar sat there, trying to define his emotions. GIs from Delta, also in the aid station, looked at Whittecar and he looked at them. The pride and relief were palpable. They’ve given their all, and so have I, thought Whittecar. He was proud, sad, exhausted from three sleepless nights, almost overcome by his emotions. There was talk of a Distinguished Service Cross and he thought, goddamn, I did it. The next moment he doubted himself. The two GIs closest to him were gone—the medic with a bullet in his head, the radioman with a mangled foot. Seven of his men were dead; almost everyone was wounded. Could I have done something differently? he asked himself. One grunt came to him privately, “I wanted to thank you for coming down. I know you didn’t have to, but I wouldn’t be alive now if you hadn’t.” That meant a great deal to Whittecar, but it did not erase all of his hauntings.