Two Days—Four Rifles
by William A. Doherty
Reconnaissance (Recon) inserts were a part of everyday life for Marines during the Vietnam War. When the recon teams became engaged with the enemy, the action was usually intense, and the extraction of the team was fraught with danger. In this 13th installment in the series, the author takes us with him on a dangerous patrol near Duc Pho, Republic of Vietnam in March 1967.
My tenure as an enlisted Marine lasted from September 1965 to May 1969. An inveterate souvenir collector, I have a box of keepsakes to remind me of those 44 months. Some—a helmet, a cruise book, some pictures, the common row of Vietnam ribbons—are a source of fond memories. My favorite souvenir is a beat-up French bolt action rifle.
During mid-December 1966, newly assigned 1st Division Marines reported to a Quonset hut in Da Nang, and I was back again with them. I had just returned in-country after being hospitalized in the Philippines and Okinawa since 21 September 1966 when I was medically evacuated from Company D, 1st Battalion, 9th Marines with a shrapnel wound to the belly.
A corporal at the podium at the front of the room asked for volunteers for recon, and I volunteered. I had been with recon Marines in the hospital, and it sounded like a good place to go.
By March I had made about 14 patrols with 1st Platoon, Company D, 1st Recon Battalion—call sign “Duckbill.” Some patrols were quiet, and some were busy. In January 1967 I had picked up a second Purple Heart—a scratch on the hand—in a firefight on Hill 218. In late February our platoon commander, a mustang second lieutenant who had fought in Korea, earned a Navy Cross in a fight on Hill 163 near Duc Pho. He burst his eardrums in the battle, during which we lost our platoon sergeant (killed in action), our corpsman, and another team member with serious wounds. The damage to the team was such that we stood down for awhile. Then on 14 March we inserted for a 4-day patrol with a new platoon commander. The insert was to be an area recon where we would move around the jungle, as opposed to a fixed observation post (OP). I always preferred the fixed OP. I had confidence that if we were on a hill where a chopper could land, as long as we didn’t run out of ammo, the air wing would get us out if things got too bad.
The first 2 days were quiet. We moved each day, and I don’t think we saw the enemy at all. On the night of 15 March we set up our defensive positions with claymores out in front. Each claymore had a “mousetrap” under it—a small device that would make a noise if the claymore was moved. This was to counter the enemy’s tactic of finding the claymores and reversing them. If the man on watch heard the mousetrap go off, he would hit the detonator, exploding the claymore in the enemy’s hands. When we left our positions in the morning, each Marine retrieving a claymore would first replace the mousetrap’s safety pin.
On the morning of 16 March 1967, someone retrieving his claymore forgot about the mousetrap, and it went off. The discharge of a mousetrap would not hurt anyone, but it was loud enough—like a gunshot—to tell every Viet Cong (VC) and North Vietnamese Army (NVA) soldier in the province where we were.
So we moved, right? Wrong! Remember, I said we had a new platoon commander. He was new but not ready to take advice from the platoon sergeant, who was new in the position but of long experience in the team. We sent two men up trees to observe—the area was heavy jungle—and to stay put. The lieutenant did, however, put out a listening post (LP) consisting of myself and a Marine named Darrell. We moved about 25 to 30 meters away from the harbor site to where the jungle ended in a small clearing. Across the clearing from our position was a field of elephant grass with a trail winding out of it. Jungle enclosed two sides of the clearing. The fourth side was a sheer drop.
To remain alert even daytime LPs should not be out for extended periods of time. We went out around 0800. By noon we had still not been relieved. The lack of activity the last 2 days had lulled us into a false sense of security. We expected that this patrol would be a no contact ground ball. This false sense of security, coupled with the Vietnamese heat and the ever-present exhaustion from nights of 50 percent alert status, made us somewhat less vigilant than we should have been. Darrell made use of his camera. I napped. At almost 1300 Darrell told me he was going back to the harbor site to get a can of chow from his pack. I sat up and took over the watch. I had been carrying the M60 machinegun on the last few patrols, but the machinegun did not get taken out of the harbor site. For the LP, I had borrowed someone’s rifle, an automatic M14 with the buttplate and sling attachments removed. (We would not get the M16 until later in the month.) I cradled the rifle across my lap to await Darrell’s return.
He had hardly left when I heard rustling in the elephant grass across the clearing. I was sure it couldn’t be a bad guy, but I decided to squat down and take advantage of available cover.
I was quite wrong. An enemy soldier appeared just 10 feet away from me where the trail met the clearing. He was in the standard black pajamas. Thank God he was VC, not NVA! Thank God neither he nor his companions had automatic rifles! He held a rifle in his right hand, and with his left hand he spread the foliage out of his way. He stopped at that moment just entering the clearing. We stared at each other. So close! I had never been that close to a live enemy before.
I recovered more quickly than he did, and I had the better rifle. I shot before he could get his weapon into battery or warn his comrades. I fired a burst on automatic, and then fired a second burst. A shot was fired in return, and I turned to run back to the harbor site, yelling all the way so as not to be shot by a fellow Marine.
I looked right in his face when I fired. It has been over 36 years but the memory is clear, and I believe even today I could recognize his face in a picture. But once I fired, the next memory I have is of returning to the harbor site. I must have seen the bullets hit him—must have seen him fall—but the memory is just not there!
We quickly broke down the harbor site. Now we had to run. While I was telling the lieutenant, the platoon sergeant, and a banjo-eyed Darrell what had happened, my squad leader sent two other men out to check the body. We heard a shot. They made sure the skirmish was over, but the shot had been unnecessary. They returned with his rifle—now my rifle—and told me I had walked a burst up his right side, hitting him in the knee, the arm, and the eye. I later counted the rounds in the magazine and found nine remaining. I had fired 11 rounds.
Returning the M14 to its owner, I retrieved my M60 and my own web gear and took up my position in the column.
I don’t remember how far we moved through the jungle, or how long it took, but when we set up for the night we were on the crest of a jungle covered hill. A stream flowed by at the bottom of the hill. We found our positions, again set out our claymores, ate a can of chow, and set in for the night.
At first light on 17 March we broke down our positions, brought in our claymores, and put two OPs up in the trees. The word was passed that around noon we would move toward our landing zone (LZ) for a 1300 pickup.
Again, the lieutenant put out an LP, and again, I got it. This time I was paired up with my team leader, a Marine named Pat. We moved down to the bank of the stream at the base of the hill and set in with our backs to some rocks. The overgrowth was dense. I could not see much to my left, but Pat could see across my position. Again, we were out for about 4 hours, but I didn’t bat an eye, and neither did Pat. This time I had the M60 with me, with a 100-round belt in the gun and two more across my shoulders. This time I was taking no chances.
http://www.mca-marines.org/Gazette/1103/1103sting.jpg
Marine patrol in Vietnam, April 1967.
continued........
