thedrifter
04-07-04, 11:33 AM
Hotel Company—Day Three
by LtCol Vic Taylor, USMC(Ret)
The outcome of a battle is the sum of the actions of individuals and units. Our Corps’ history is rich with their stories. In the relentless 3-day struggle at Dai Do, all of 2/4’s Marines and units were engaged and contributed to the success against great odds. We asked one participant, then a second lieutenant who became his company’s third commander in 72 hours, to share his memories in this ‘Sting of Battle’ complement to BGen William Weise’s article.
I’ll steal an opening theme from “Mac,” the top kick in Leon Uris’ classic book about Marines—Battle Cry. When I think back on my years in the Marine Corps, I think of men and of outfits. I guess I’ve been in a couple of dozen commands, and there were probably 50 commanding officers (COs). But oddly enough, there was really only one CO, and really only one outfit, that I always thought of as mine. The CO was then-LtCol Bill Weise, and the outfit was the 2d Battalion, 4th Marines (2/4) that he led in Vietnam.
I suspect that feeling goes for all of us who followed “Wild Bill” through the dry paddies and sand dunes above the Cua Viet River during the winter and spring of 1968. As a commander, LtCol Weise fulfilled every expectation of what a Marine leader was supposed to be.
Like the other remaining participants in the battle for Dai Do, I have vivid recollections of those early days in May. Mostly, those recollections are in two categories:
The enemy:
• Their unprecedented numbers on the battlefield.
• The immensity and complexity of their fortifications.
• Their uncommon aggressiveness and tenacity.
• The incredible amount of firepower they brought to the points of contact.
And our Marines:
• The young/old men in their teens and early twenties. They followed and led, fought and endured with loyalty and a soldierly steadfastness that inspired and sometimes humbled we who were privileged to lead them.
In my mind’s eye I can see their faces yet. As BGen Weise points out—whatever success we achieved was due to them.
No embellishment of the previous article is needed, but, for the sake of perspective, there are three points worth adding:
(1) The elaborate fortifications that our Marines were forced to attack—the hundreds of meters of neck-deep bunkers, fighting holes, gun pits, and connecting trenches so cleverly woven into the hedgerows, buildings, and thickets—were constructed over the previous weeks by the full-time efforts of a local Viet Cong (VC) support battalion. The Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) unit responsible for the ground made no effort to interfere with the VC efforts, or to even report them. Not surprisingly, the VC commander’s brother-in-law was an officer in the ARVN unit.
(2) The 320th North Vietnamese Army (NVA) Division committed all three of its infantry regiments against our Marines at Dai Do. They were fresh troops, well-equipped with new uniforms and web gear, and carried extra socks and skivvies. They were fit and well-fed—with full messkits and recent haircuts. Their weapons were new, or nearly new, and they had plenty of ammunition. They were led by veterans who had 10 or more years of combat experience. The CO of Company E, then-Capt James E. Livingston, observed that the enemy looked like the “palace guard.” I agree. They did—and there were over 7,000 of them.
(3) The combined strength of 2/4’s 5 rifle companies was less than 700 men.
Picking up on BGen Weise’s narrative, a little before noon on 2 May, Company H stepped out of the clump of woods that was our attack position and moved to assault Dinh To. There were about 75 of us by then. Two days earlier, we had lost our wounded company commander, Capt Jim Williams, along with our forward observer, most of our staff noncommissioned officers, and a lot of leaders and other Marines.
As we crossed the dry rice fields, our mortars and artillery began working the objective. The NVA fired first—single shots but accurate—and our Marines began falling—including my radio operator. We broke into a run, closing the gap. The enemy protective fires opened up as we got into their initial defenses. The fortifications were unbelievable, and the NVA soldiers were popping in and out, up and down, shooting from all the holes. Fields of fire overlapped. To get at one bunker, you had to take the fire from another. By teams and pairs the Marines would throw grenades, then flank the bunker, and fire up the trench. It was not our first time out. As usual, the enemy was almost invisible until we got right on top of them. Some broke and ran—most died in place. We took hits but got the rhythm and kept moving. After about an hour, our acting CO, 1stLt Alexander “Scotty” Prescott, ordered the reserve platoon into the line to fill our losses.
We were still moving but losing our frontage when the NVA counterattacked. We had never had one before, and it took a minute to realize what was going on. There were no charging troops at first—just a tremendous surge of incoming rifle, machinegun, and rocket propelled grenade (RPG) fire. All at once we took a dozen casualties up front and were stalled.
Then there were NVA shouting and shooting on our right and left. Our outside squads automatically refused the flanks and returned fire. By that time, most of the M16s were carboned up or had jammed due to the sandy, gritty soil. Our Marines were using AK–47s and other enemy weapons within reach. Ammunition was getting low. There were too many casualties to move. The midday heat was stifling, and our water was gone. We were holding our own but had lost the momentum. Everybody there knew we were in a bad spot, and things were about to get worse. The NVA had reinforced, regrouped, and they were reaching for our belt. We braced for another attack.
I heard somebody yell, “Echo!” I looked around and saw Capt Livingston and 20 or 30 Marines coming toward us through the smoke. I could have kissed them. Scotty was hit then and went down. He yelled to me, “You got it!”
The Marines of Companies E and H mixed together, miserable and mad at everything. They literally jumped into another assault. We rolled over the NVA in front and shot, blasted, and stabbed for another 100 yards.
When the second counterattack came it sounded like the NVA were using every weapon they had. Incoming ground fire shredded vegetation from knee-high on up. Leaves, twigs, and branches were falling all around. Masonry walls disintegrated. RPGs came in volleys. Enemy grenades and ours passed each other in the air. Rockets, artillery rounds, mortar rounds—somebody’s—were landing in front and in back of us. A section of NVA heavy machineguns out in the field to our right poured grazing 12.7mm fire into our flank.
The NVA riflemen came right behind their supporting fires. This time they were easy to see—trotting shapes, shooting on the move. I remember leafy camouflage, brown faces, and spike bayonets. They were to our front, left, and somehow in the rear. They were everywhere.
At that point there were probably about 60 of us left from both companies. Command became irrelevant. We were all in the fight, and the outcome was in the hands of individual Marines—Marines like PFC Tony Scafiti—standing in the open, M60 machinegun braced on his hip, mowing down a column of NVA—tracer light-sticks going through two at a time. Or 2dLt Gregory Boyle—just 2 weeks in country—upright among his men, pointing out targets with a walking stick. Or Cpls Roberto Ruiz and John Rank—my radio operators—sending situation reports cool as ice—handset in one hand, .45 caliber pistol in the other. Or another Marine—no weapon—deliberately pitching grenades like he was back home playing ball.
On his own initiative, our sniper, LCpl Jim O’Neill, and his assistant, PFC Bob Griese, crawled out into the open field to our right and found the murderous NVA machineguns. O’Neill killed 24 gunners and assistant gunners—one after the other.
Ironically, in the middle of all this, the regimental commander’s voice came over a squawky radio speaker on the battalion tactical net. He was needlessly advising LtCol Weise to be aggressive. There were curses and jeers from troops within earshot. The battalion commander yelled back, “Six—I’ve got two companies in the attack now, and they’re killing all these little bastards they can!” (Cheers from the Marines.) That was exactly what we were doing!
At that moment the 2/4 Marines and the 320th NVA Division were toe to toe. Ranges were between 60 feet and grappling distance. Our Marines stood their ground and never gave an inch. I saw one of them club an NVA infantryman to the ground, snatch his AK–47, then kill that soldier and two more with the seized weapon.
The enemy had the odds in numbers and guns, but they gave way first. Their counterattack melted. Any NVA who didn’t withdraw died there. We regrouped, relocated, dug in, and waited. LtCol Weise led Companies F and G through and continued the attack. That night of 2 May, Company H’s lines were thin. Half of our weapons were NVA, and almost every Marine was wearing a bandage or battle dressing. We looked like a beat-up bunch, and nobody knew if it was over or who had won. But we stood on NVA positions, stepping over their dead bodies. We were there, and they were not. That was good enough for us.
>LtCol Taylor retired in 1985. He owns a national consulting company and lives in northwest Colorado and the Florida Keys.
http://www.mca-marines.org/Gazette/sting.html
Ellie
by LtCol Vic Taylor, USMC(Ret)
The outcome of a battle is the sum of the actions of individuals and units. Our Corps’ history is rich with their stories. In the relentless 3-day struggle at Dai Do, all of 2/4’s Marines and units were engaged and contributed to the success against great odds. We asked one participant, then a second lieutenant who became his company’s third commander in 72 hours, to share his memories in this ‘Sting of Battle’ complement to BGen William Weise’s article.
I’ll steal an opening theme from “Mac,” the top kick in Leon Uris’ classic book about Marines—Battle Cry. When I think back on my years in the Marine Corps, I think of men and of outfits. I guess I’ve been in a couple of dozen commands, and there were probably 50 commanding officers (COs). But oddly enough, there was really only one CO, and really only one outfit, that I always thought of as mine. The CO was then-LtCol Bill Weise, and the outfit was the 2d Battalion, 4th Marines (2/4) that he led in Vietnam.
I suspect that feeling goes for all of us who followed “Wild Bill” through the dry paddies and sand dunes above the Cua Viet River during the winter and spring of 1968. As a commander, LtCol Weise fulfilled every expectation of what a Marine leader was supposed to be.
Like the other remaining participants in the battle for Dai Do, I have vivid recollections of those early days in May. Mostly, those recollections are in two categories:
The enemy:
• Their unprecedented numbers on the battlefield.
• The immensity and complexity of their fortifications.
• Their uncommon aggressiveness and tenacity.
• The incredible amount of firepower they brought to the points of contact.
And our Marines:
• The young/old men in their teens and early twenties. They followed and led, fought and endured with loyalty and a soldierly steadfastness that inspired and sometimes humbled we who were privileged to lead them.
In my mind’s eye I can see their faces yet. As BGen Weise points out—whatever success we achieved was due to them.
No embellishment of the previous article is needed, but, for the sake of perspective, there are three points worth adding:
(1) The elaborate fortifications that our Marines were forced to attack—the hundreds of meters of neck-deep bunkers, fighting holes, gun pits, and connecting trenches so cleverly woven into the hedgerows, buildings, and thickets—were constructed over the previous weeks by the full-time efforts of a local Viet Cong (VC) support battalion. The Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) unit responsible for the ground made no effort to interfere with the VC efforts, or to even report them. Not surprisingly, the VC commander’s brother-in-law was an officer in the ARVN unit.
(2) The 320th North Vietnamese Army (NVA) Division committed all three of its infantry regiments against our Marines at Dai Do. They were fresh troops, well-equipped with new uniforms and web gear, and carried extra socks and skivvies. They were fit and well-fed—with full messkits and recent haircuts. Their weapons were new, or nearly new, and they had plenty of ammunition. They were led by veterans who had 10 or more years of combat experience. The CO of Company E, then-Capt James E. Livingston, observed that the enemy looked like the “palace guard.” I agree. They did—and there were over 7,000 of them.
(3) The combined strength of 2/4’s 5 rifle companies was less than 700 men.
Picking up on BGen Weise’s narrative, a little before noon on 2 May, Company H stepped out of the clump of woods that was our attack position and moved to assault Dinh To. There were about 75 of us by then. Two days earlier, we had lost our wounded company commander, Capt Jim Williams, along with our forward observer, most of our staff noncommissioned officers, and a lot of leaders and other Marines.
As we crossed the dry rice fields, our mortars and artillery began working the objective. The NVA fired first—single shots but accurate—and our Marines began falling—including my radio operator. We broke into a run, closing the gap. The enemy protective fires opened up as we got into their initial defenses. The fortifications were unbelievable, and the NVA soldiers were popping in and out, up and down, shooting from all the holes. Fields of fire overlapped. To get at one bunker, you had to take the fire from another. By teams and pairs the Marines would throw grenades, then flank the bunker, and fire up the trench. It was not our first time out. As usual, the enemy was almost invisible until we got right on top of them. Some broke and ran—most died in place. We took hits but got the rhythm and kept moving. After about an hour, our acting CO, 1stLt Alexander “Scotty” Prescott, ordered the reserve platoon into the line to fill our losses.
We were still moving but losing our frontage when the NVA counterattacked. We had never had one before, and it took a minute to realize what was going on. There were no charging troops at first—just a tremendous surge of incoming rifle, machinegun, and rocket propelled grenade (RPG) fire. All at once we took a dozen casualties up front and were stalled.
Then there were NVA shouting and shooting on our right and left. Our outside squads automatically refused the flanks and returned fire. By that time, most of the M16s were carboned up or had jammed due to the sandy, gritty soil. Our Marines were using AK–47s and other enemy weapons within reach. Ammunition was getting low. There were too many casualties to move. The midday heat was stifling, and our water was gone. We were holding our own but had lost the momentum. Everybody there knew we were in a bad spot, and things were about to get worse. The NVA had reinforced, regrouped, and they were reaching for our belt. We braced for another attack.
I heard somebody yell, “Echo!” I looked around and saw Capt Livingston and 20 or 30 Marines coming toward us through the smoke. I could have kissed them. Scotty was hit then and went down. He yelled to me, “You got it!”
The Marines of Companies E and H mixed together, miserable and mad at everything. They literally jumped into another assault. We rolled over the NVA in front and shot, blasted, and stabbed for another 100 yards.
When the second counterattack came it sounded like the NVA were using every weapon they had. Incoming ground fire shredded vegetation from knee-high on up. Leaves, twigs, and branches were falling all around. Masonry walls disintegrated. RPGs came in volleys. Enemy grenades and ours passed each other in the air. Rockets, artillery rounds, mortar rounds—somebody’s—were landing in front and in back of us. A section of NVA heavy machineguns out in the field to our right poured grazing 12.7mm fire into our flank.
The NVA riflemen came right behind their supporting fires. This time they were easy to see—trotting shapes, shooting on the move. I remember leafy camouflage, brown faces, and spike bayonets. They were to our front, left, and somehow in the rear. They were everywhere.
At that point there were probably about 60 of us left from both companies. Command became irrelevant. We were all in the fight, and the outcome was in the hands of individual Marines—Marines like PFC Tony Scafiti—standing in the open, M60 machinegun braced on his hip, mowing down a column of NVA—tracer light-sticks going through two at a time. Or 2dLt Gregory Boyle—just 2 weeks in country—upright among his men, pointing out targets with a walking stick. Or Cpls Roberto Ruiz and John Rank—my radio operators—sending situation reports cool as ice—handset in one hand, .45 caliber pistol in the other. Or another Marine—no weapon—deliberately pitching grenades like he was back home playing ball.
On his own initiative, our sniper, LCpl Jim O’Neill, and his assistant, PFC Bob Griese, crawled out into the open field to our right and found the murderous NVA machineguns. O’Neill killed 24 gunners and assistant gunners—one after the other.
Ironically, in the middle of all this, the regimental commander’s voice came over a squawky radio speaker on the battalion tactical net. He was needlessly advising LtCol Weise to be aggressive. There were curses and jeers from troops within earshot. The battalion commander yelled back, “Six—I’ve got two companies in the attack now, and they’re killing all these little bastards they can!” (Cheers from the Marines.) That was exactly what we were doing!
At that moment the 2/4 Marines and the 320th NVA Division were toe to toe. Ranges were between 60 feet and grappling distance. Our Marines stood their ground and never gave an inch. I saw one of them club an NVA infantryman to the ground, snatch his AK–47, then kill that soldier and two more with the seized weapon.
The enemy had the odds in numbers and guns, but they gave way first. Their counterattack melted. Any NVA who didn’t withdraw died there. We regrouped, relocated, dug in, and waited. LtCol Weise led Companies F and G through and continued the attack. That night of 2 May, Company H’s lines were thin. Half of our weapons were NVA, and almost every Marine was wearing a bandage or battle dressing. We looked like a beat-up bunch, and nobody knew if it was over or who had won. But we stood on NVA positions, stepping over their dead bodies. We were there, and they were not. That was good enough for us.
>LtCol Taylor retired in 1985. He owns a national consulting company and lives in northwest Colorado and the Florida Keys.
http://www.mca-marines.org/Gazette/sting.html
Ellie