January 1963. We were patrolling the dikes. Quiet Delta morning. Then the Patties erupted. Four helicopters down in five minutes. A rifle company face down in the mud and rescue orders no one would obey. This is app back. I’m going to show exactly how a simple radio snatch turned into a blood bath. Step by step.

 You’ll see the fog delay that blew the timetable, the fatal 200yard landing zone, the Vietkong lead fire that shredded the Hueies, and the command paralysis that left men to die. Stay to the end, and you’ll know who froze, who fought, and why that morning changed the war. 3 days after Christmas in 1962, the 7th Infantry Division received orders from the ARVN Joint General Staff.

 They were to capture a Vietkong radio transmitter located in the hamlet of Tantoy, which is 14 mi northwest of Mytho. This order came from General Harkkins’ headquarters. The United States was using its technology to address the conflict in the south. Once more, an army security agency team from the third radio research unit at Tansson intercepted signals from that guerilla radio using their monitoring and direction finding tools.

Van and his team were eager about the upcoming attack. This operation was the first one of the new year and the first under a new division commander. Most importantly, it represented a chance for a fresh start. Cow’s chief of staff, Lieutenant Colonel Buen Dam, took over after C was promoted to general. Cow moved to Cantho to lead the newly formed IV Corps.

 Dam was not keen on his new role. He was a small, gentle individual who saw himself as a capable manager, but felt uncertain about handling the pressures of command. Cao had persuaded him to accept the position to avoid any chance for arrival. Cow knew he could keep Dam under control. Buen Dam was a Catholic from North Vietnam and politically reliable, so DM agreed with Cao’s choice.

 He elevated Dam to full colonel and put him in charge of the seventh division. Dan preferred to be honest in his personal connections when possible and he wished to collaborate with the Americans. When Van suggested resuming the joint planning system that cow had halted after the Ranger platoon suffered significant losses in October, Dam agreed.

 Van contacted Captain Richard Ziegler, his skilled planner and a former football player from West Point. Ziegler was asked to cut short his Christmas leave at the tea house of the August Moon Hotel in Hong Kong and return on the next available flight. Everyone involved, including Cow, who reviewed the plan in Cantho, was pleased with Ziegler’s work.

 Dam made only one adjustment. He delayed the attack by 24 hours from its original start time of New Year’s morning. He felt it would not be wise to rouse the American helicopter pilots at 4 in the morning while they still had the previous night’s festivities on their minds. At dawn on January 2nd, 1963, another familiar scene unfolded at the division’s dirt air strip in Tan Heap, located six miles on the road to Saigon.

The peaceful Delta morning was disturbed by noise, engine fumes, and swirling dust from helicopters. Infantry squads lined up to board the aircraft. At 6:30 a.m., Van took off in the back seat of an Army L19 spotter plane, heading out to observe the arrival of the first company from a division battalion north of Tantoy.

General Harkkins and his staff in Saigon looked down on the Vietkong. Typical of how soldiers from major powers often regard guerrillas from smaller nations, they referred to the Vietkong with disdain. In the field, Van and his advisers held a different view. They respected the tactics of the communistled gerillas.

Yet, there was a shared hope among American officers in Vietnam. They wished the gorillas would one day abandon their stealthy ways and confront them head-on in an open battle. This desire was expressed with a sense of longing. No American officer, including Van, anticipated that wish would come true.

 The Ranger platoon’s destruction in October had been an ambush followed by a skilled withdrawal amidst air strikes. Throughout the day, the gorillas had not engaged the Saigon forces in direct combat. Despite his frustration with Cao for not sealing the trap during several operations, Van could not shake the hope that the gorillas would one day show such reckless bravery.

 This was seemingly the only way he could fully decimate an entire battalion. Van and other American officers often lamented the fate that awaited any Vietkong battalion foolish enough to engage in a setpiece battle. The heavy losses the Saigon troops would inflict on lightly armed guerillas would seem unfair by US Army standards.

 As Van watched 10 H21 flying bananas land the company of infantry in the gray waters of the Patties at 7:03 a.m., he had no idea that he was about to witness a rare occurrence. A decisive battle significant in a conflict filled with seemingly endless skirmishes was on the verge of changing the war’s course. Today, the Vietkong were ready to fight.

The commander of the 261st Main Force Battalion finished his preparations by 10:00 the night before the battle. His identity, along with those of most of his officers and non-commissioned officers, remains unknown due to the secretive nature of their revolution. A captured Vietkong account of the battle mentions only one junior officer who led a sorty as well as a few lower ranking soldiers who displayed exceptional bravery.

Radio intercepts from eavesdroppers and information gathered by Jim Drummond, Van’s intelligence officer, along with his counterpart, Captain Languin Bin, revealed that Tanthoy Hamlet was being used as a headquarters. The transmitter at the hamlet was reportedly guarded by a reinforced company of about 120 Vietkong regulars.

Ziggler’s plan involved attack elements approaching Tantoy from three different directions. The infantry battalion of the seventh division, consisting of roughly 330 men, was being landed to the north by helicopters and was set to advance on the hamlet. At the same time, two battalions of civil guards were to march up from the south in separate columns.

A company of 13 M113 armored personnel carriers carrying an infantry company would also advance from the south along the western flank of the operational area. The M113s were arranged to shift to the contact point once the guerillas began to retreat. Each of the three advancing elements, the division battalion and the two civil guard battalions was equipped to handle a reinforced company of guerrillas with artillery and fighter bomber support.

 If trouble arose, the M113s and their mounted infantry acted as both a mobile reserve and a striking force. Additionally, DAM had two other infantry companies on standby at Tan Heap, ready to be sent in as reinforcements by helicopter. No one anticipated finding more than 120 Vietkong fighters. Dick Ziggler privately questioned whether there would even be that many, recalling how inaccurate intelligence had led them to discover after an attack that the gorillas had relocated the radio days before the operation.

However, this time the intelligence was wrong. Nearly three times that number was present. Many guerillas had gathered in Tanthoy and the nearby hamlet of Bach. The commander of the 261st battalion along with his headquarters unit had a defending force of about 320 main force and regional guerillas. They received support from around 30 village guerrillas who acted as scouts, emergency replacements, and carriers for ammunition and the wounded.

On the morning of January 2nd, 1963, the battalion commander and the Vietkong committee for the province learned that an attack was imminent. They did not know the exact target since one of their main radios had been discovered, but they were aware it would be near Tantoy and Bach. They had anticipated a campaign against a series of villages they controlled along the eastern edge of the plain of Reeds.

 The two hamlets belong to one of these villages located 2 miles from a large canal called Tong Do Lock which marked the plane’s eastern boundary. Vietkong intelligence agents in Mtho had alerted the province leadership about the operation by reporting 71 truckloads of ammunition and other supplies arriving from Saigon.

 By New Year’s Day, the province committee had gathered enough information to conclude that the attack would start the next morning. Van would have felt satisfied with the guerilla leader decision to fight. They believed staying and resisting was necessary to restore confidence among their troops and the supportive peasantry. Van had thrown their revolution into turmoil during the previous summer and fall.

 His strategic use of helicopters and armored carriers had significantly weakened the Vietkong. The mass casualties made the gorillas doubt their officers ability to guide them through the challenges posed by American technology which had caught them off guard in their former safe areas. Many had requested discharged soldiers were returning to their families.

 Many peasants wondered if the Americans were truly more powerful and fierce than the French. They questioned whether this revived Vietmen could stand against American forces. A secret Vietkong report highlighted how unexpected defeats had threatened the party’s control over the liberated areas. These areas were essential for expanding the revolution into contested regions.

The peasants needed reassurance that the party’s secret government was here to stay. They needed to believe that its guerilla fighters could offer them protection from the Saigon troops and American machinery. The Vietkong Battalion commanders and provincial leaders were in their 40s. They had extensive backgrounds in the resistance against French colonial rule and Japanese occupation during World War II.

 No matter the war’s outcome, retreat was not an option. They couldn’t escape to the north as discouraged cadres were not welcomed there. Fleeing wasn’t on their minds. They couldn’t accept the chance of their revolution failing. One of their secret writings emphasized the importance of educating young leaders to endure a long struggle filled with hardship.

It stated, “We should teach them to win without arrogance and to lose without discouragement until we have achieved the liberation of the South and the reunification of our ancestral land. They analyzed American machines and developed tactics to counter them. They worked hard to instill confidence in their junior officers, non-commissioned officers, and troops.

 They believed that if they remained calm and effectively used fortifications and camouflage, the Delta’s terrain would provide enough cover for combat and movement. Their efforts led to an ambush of the Rangers at a hamlet just a few miles northwest of Tanthoy. They shot down two helicopters carrying reinforcements, including one with Van on board.

 The first company of the 514th Regional Battalion was responsible for this small but important success. They were waiting in Tantoy on this second day of the new year. DM’s response to Cao’s submissive acceptance of his leader harmful strategy along with Harkin’s refusal to trust Van or challenge DM allowed the Vietkong a break of two and a half months.

 The guerilla battalion and company commanders fully utilized this time to replace their losses and train their men on new tactics and captured American weapons. By January 1963, the main force and regional guerrillas had gathered enough modern American arms from the neglected outposts. They could now pass down bolt-action French rifles to the district and local guerillas.

 Most infantrymen in the Vietkong carried semi-automatic M1 rifles, carbines, or Thompson submachine guns. Each company was equipped with a standard 30 caliber machine gun fed with ammunition belts. Almost all platoon had a couple of Browning automatic rifles designed by John Moses Browning, the American firearms innovator who crafted these light machine guns.

 They had sufficient bullets and grenades. The United States and its puppet regime in Saigon had significantly improved the firepower of their adversary. Ironically, the party leadership in the Northern Delta remained unaware that Cao had been staging operations. They believed the Saigon forces were still trying to encircle and wipe out their units as Van had attempted earlier.

 They observed that the assault elements had grown larger, shifting from a battalion split into two task forces to a complete battalion. They assumed the Army of the Republic of Vietnam commanders and their American advisers were merely being more careful in their encirclement efforts. The hamlets of Tantoy and Bach were situated in one of the most crucial liberated zones in the northern delta.

A strong method to discourage incursions by Saigon forces into these zones was to make them uninviting and unprofitable through effective resistance. The Vietkong leaders did not plan to simply hold their ground. They were prepared to engage in battle, hoping to fight and maneuver on their own terms. They believed they had reached a level of capability that warranted a challenge.

 The risk had to be faced at some point, and this moment presented a solid opportunity. The land was strategically beneficial. Although it was the dry season, there were plenty of streams and canals in this part of the province. This allowed the farmers to keep their patties flooded throughout the year. The Vietkong and the two hamlets had the edge as they fought in familiar territory backed by local men defending their homes.

 The gorillas were all from the Delta. This included both the officers and non-commissioned officers, all of whom were members of the Communist Party. The 5 and 14th regional with its first company located in Tantoy was the local battalion of Dinang Province. About half of the troops in the first company of the 261st main force battalion stationed in Bach Hamlet were from the mito area.

 Another quarter came from the vicinity of Ben Trey located just across the upper branch of the Mikong River. This location was historically significant for a significant battle. The peasants in this area of villages along the eastern edge of the plain of Reeds had supported the communists since their initial uprising against the French in November 1940.

The French had crushed that rebellion, destroying many hamlets with artillery and bombs. They transported prisoners to Son on river barges, unloading them at night under harsh search lights. Many were bound together in long lines with wires thrust through their palms. Yet the local population did not back down.

Over the nine years of the resistance war, they answered the call of the Vietnam. At 4 in the morning, some local guerilla scout teams spread out over miles around the two hamlets reported through runners that they could hear the sounds of truck and boat engines. The battalion commander issued the alert order.

 The troops, who had practiced their placements the previous night, grabbed their weapons. They rushed to the foxholes that the farmers had helped them dig and conceal beneath the trees. Tantoy was linked to back by a creek lined with trees along both banks. This allowed for covert movement during the day.

 Thus, the hamlets formed two interconnected supporting positions. The battalion commander positioned the stronger half of his force, which included the first company of his battalion, bolstered by a few rifle squads and his battalion weapons platoon, which held an additional 30 caliber machine gun and a 60 mm mortar. In back hamlet, mortar was important because it was the hardest area to defend.

Intelligence suggested that any attack on Bach would likely come from the south or west. Just to the south, a creek branched off to the west with a tree line running alongside it. He positioned a platoon of infantry under this treeine in foxholes along the far bank of the stream. From there, they had a clear view of the rice patties to the south.

 The western edge of Back Hamlet featured a large irrigation ditch that ran north and south. A substantial dyke bordered this ditch and trees grew a top it. The battalion commander placed the rest of his company and weapons platoon in foxholes dug into the dyke beneath the trees. The dyke was at least 4 feet thick in some places and higher elsewhere, rising above the patties like a levey.

 Due to uneven land ownership, the peasants did not dig the ditch or build the dyke in a straight line. As a result, the dyke zigzagged into the rice fields at various spots. Shooting across the patties from the foxholes in the dyke was similar to aiming from the third or fourth row of bleachers at a high school football game.

 The zigzagging also allowed gorillas to catch anyone approaching in crossfire. The battalion commander positioned two machine guns and bars at these outcroppings for what the United States Army terms interlocking fields of fire. He placed the second half of his force, the first company of the 514th regionals, supported by a separate provincial platoon, similarly in the irrigation dikes around the three exposed sides of Tanthoy.

 From above or from the rice fields outside, these hamlets appeared to be just ordinary. The tree lines featured the typical delta mix of banana and coconut groves, various fruit trees, stands of bamboo and water palm, and hardwoods that the peasants allowed to grow for construction. The undergrowth was dense.

 Following the guidance of officers trained during the war against the French, the peasants and troops dug fox holes without disrupting the foliage above or behind them. They removed and dispersed any excess dirt. Where the original foliage seemed sparse, fresh branches were added over and around the foxholes. From a low-flying L19 spotter plane or a helicopter, everything looked natural.

The foxholes were dug deep enough for a man to stand inside them. The machine gun and Browning automatic rifle positions had wider fox holes so that two men, the gunner and the loader, could stand together. The depth of these foxholes allowed the gorillas to duck down and avoid danger from fighter bombers and artillery.

 To kill a man crouched inside one of these foxholes required a direct hit from an artillery shell or a bomb. A napalm strike had to be close enough to burn or suffocate him. Air burst artillery could kill, but only if the shell exploded directly above the foxhole or at a close angle.

 Unless the gorilla was foolish enough to peek out when the aircraft passed, strafing with machine guns and rockets was largely ineffective. The irrigation ditch behind the line of foxholes served as a communications trench. Men could move along it without being seen or shot at by anyone in front of the dyke and trees above. The ditch was about 6 ft wide and filled with water up to waist height.

 The gorillas could wait in it or quickly shuttle back and forth in wooden sand pans made by local peasants. When a plane flew overhead, any Vietkong in the ditch could hide by submerging themselves in the water or taking cover under the foliage on either side. The irrigation ditch allowed troops in the foxholes to receive ammunition as needed, evacuate the wounded, send in replacements, and let officers and non-commissioned officers move around safely while guiding and encouraging their men.

Most women, children, and elderly men among the 600 residents of Bach, along with a similar number in Tanthoy, fled to nearby swamps for safety as soon as the alert was issued. Some adults remained to assist the wounded and act as runners. The ground fog that morning added an element of chance to the battle.

 The fog blanketed the entire region, obscuring the landscape from the air. It hung over the rice patties and enveloped the trees and thatched roofs of Tanthoy back and most other hamlets. Given the need for about 30 transport helicopters to lift an entire army of the Republic of Vietnam Battalion at once, the Army struggled to keep the Korean era H21s operational.

 That same morning, Harkkins had prioritized a complex operation called Burning Arrow. This operation involved 1,250 paratroopers jumping as well as a battalion of infantry landing from helicopters after intense bombing. The goal was to surprise and eliminate the main communist headquarters, the central office for South Vietnam, located in the rainforests of war zone C near the old Duong Minchow stronghold northwest of Saigon.

 Burning Arrow ultimately failed as the headquarters was not located. With the 10H21s he managed to secure, Van had to transport the division battalion to the landing zone north of Tatantoy in small groups. The fog was particularly thick around Tan Heap airirststrip. Helicopter pilots managed to take off through the fog with the first company shortly before 7 a.m.

They found a clear area above the hamlet to land the troops. However, the fog grew thicker and the pilots were concerned about potential mid-air collisions or losing their way with the second and third companies. Consequently, Van and Dam had to delay those lifts for nearly 2 and 1/2 hours until 9:30 a.m.

 when the sun had risen enough to clear the fog. Meanwhile, the first company had to wait. If the movement of the infantry battalion to Tantoy had not been delayed, the fight may have started there, leading to a different outcome in the battle. This delay allowed the civil guards to advance from the south, engaging with a platoon of guerillas stationed along the creek just below back.

 This unexpected timing ignited a dramatic and significant clash that would deeply impact the war and heavily influence Van’s life. The guerillas were aware of the approaching civil guards. The Vietkong Battalion commander informed the company leader in Bach that his platoon, positioned across the stream, was prepared to fire the first shots.

The battalion’s radio operators, using captured American radios, monitored Saigon troop movements by tracking their frequencies as the Army of the Republic of Vietnam did not practice effective communication. Security was transmitted in basic language, providing map coordinates the Vietkong staff could plot easily.

 Scouts and a platoon of district gerillas fleeing from the civil guards confirmed the radio intel. The guerilla infantrymen hidden in foxholes spotted the first battalion of civil guards approaching them along dirt trails and narrow patty dikes. The district gorillas quickly moved to a coconut grove on the right.

 They were ordered to attack the civil guards from that flank after the Vietkong regulars surprised them from the front. Aware of potential threats in the tree lines, the captain of the Civil Guard battalion became cautious as his troops advanced. He halted at a Patty dyke about 150 yards away and sent part of a company into the open rice field for reconnaissance.

 The gorillas allowed the civil guards to come within 30 yards before opening fire. As Saigon troops stumbled back through the muck toward the safety of the dyke, the district platoon in the Coconut Grove unleashed a barrage from the right. The company commander and his executive officer were killed within moments.

 The rest of the battalion at the dyke should have provided cover. Instead, many took cover behind the low mud wall, while others fired blindly over the top, hitting those who were retreating. It was 7:45 a.m. For the next two hours, the captain in charge tried to dislodge the gorillas with ineffective flanking maneuvers. His artillery observer seemed either incompetent or unable to adjust fire as requested.

 The sporadic shells landed behind the gorillas instead of on their positions. The maneuvering ceased shortly before 10:00 a.m. when the captain suffered a minor leg wound. Van remained unaware of the fight at the southern tree line until it was almost over. Major Lamb Kuangtho, the chief of Dinuang Province and theoretically one of Dam’s regimental commanders for the operation, chose not to inform Dam about the battle.

 Tho was the individual who DM was appointed commander of the armor regiment at Metho as extra protection against any coup. His family belonged to the landowning class in the Delta and had supported the nodins, though did not hurry his second civil guard battalion to help the first when gunfire erupted. He also failed to fix the artillery despite an American lieutenant’s warning about it.

 Instead of organizing an attack himself, he stood back. The scene of the action was less than two miles from his field headquarters along the main road to the south. After the casualties reached eight killed and 14 wounded and the civil guard captain was injured, though chose the usual route for a commander in Saigon, he asked someone else to handle the fighting.

 He radioed a request to Dam to have the two infantry companies at Tanhip Airstrip land as a division reserve in the rice fields behind the southern tree line. Ideally, dropping the reserve troops in their rear would force the gorillas to retreat. What though did not consider was that it would also place troops in the open patties before the western tree line of Bach, where the guerilla regulars were waiting in their foxholes.

Van was flying an L19 north of Tanthoy, tracking the movements of the third company that had just landed. Ziggler contacted him over the radio from the command post tent at the airirstrip. He relayed those requests and mentioned that Dam wanted Van to head to Bach and choose a landing site for the reserves. Van felt uneasy about back as soon as he spotted the hamlet.

 He thought the gorillas attacking the civil guards from the southern treeine might be part of a larger group that had retreated in advance of the provincial troops. If that was the case, back would be their logical regrouping point. For the next 15 minutes, he scanned the hamlet and its surrounding tree lines from the back of the spotter plane.

The army pilot maneuvered the small aircraft skillfully at a few hundred feet above the ground, gliding like a hawk, riding an updraft. Occasionally, at Van’s request, the pilot would accelerate and dip the plane. The plane flew down for a high-speed pass just above the trees. Despite his trained eye, Van could not spot any of the gorillas.

 He only knew there were Vietkong in the southern treeine because he could see the bullets hitting around the civil guards. The gorillas in the irrigation dyke at the western treeine stayed in their foxholes. They allowed the small green plane to make several runs without firing, knowing the rules of the engagement. Even with the calm of back, Van remained wary of the western treeine.

 He instructed his pilot to connect with another L19 leading a flight of 10 H21s, transporting the first reserve company from the airirstrip. The H21s, though awkward in appearance, were accompanied by five new gunship helicopters the army had sent to Vietnam the previous fall. These helicopters had a sleek aerodynamic design and were agile due to a powerful turbine engine.

 Built by Bell, the helicopters were officially called the Hu1 Irakqua, but the army airmen affectionately named them the Huey. Each Huey was equipped with two 7.62mm 62mm machine guns mounted under the fuselage and pods of 2.75 in rockets placed above them. The co-pilot aimed the machine guns through a crosshair device and fired both the guns and rockets using buttons on the device.

Van provided landing instructions to the lead pilot of the 10 H21s. He wanted the reserve company to land 300 yards from both the western and southern tree lines. He also instructed the helicopters on a route to minimize their risk when entering and exiting the landing zone. In 1963, command relationships among the Americans were unclear.

 The helicopter companies operated independently from senior advisers. Many of the senior pilots disliked Van. His dominating nature and aviation expertise often led him to take control. They might disregard orders from any adviser, but they were especially determined to show Van that they understood more about flying helicopters and troop landings in combat zones.

 The senior H21 pilot in the lead helicopter ignored Van’s directions. Instead, he aimed for a landing spot about 200 yd from the western treeine. Van’s specified distance of 300 yards was crucial for safety. 30 caliber small arms fire is seen as mostly ineffective. Due to bullet drop, visibility issues, and other factors, the 100yard distance can be a vast difference.

 The line between hitting and missing. While John Van was giving his orders, the Vietkong battalion commander was preparing his troops to shoot down helicopters. Van created a sketch map of the Battle of Appbach for the joint chiefs of staff. He made a colored slide to project the tree lines of Bach and Tanthoy in the Pentagon conference room for American military leaders.

He kept the slide with his documents. The X inside the circle indicates the initial target, the radio transmitter operating from Tanthoy. The map shows the three companies of the Seventh Division Infantry Battalion advancing toward that hamlet. Van referred to the Tong Dock Canal as Babio, which forms the border of the plane of Reeds.

 An arrow on the lower right marks the first civil guard battalion engaging with the guerilla platoon in the tree line along the creek just south of back. The next arrow to the left points to the second civil guard battalion still moving up from the south. Meanwhile, the company of M113s is swept along the outer west flank of the operational area.

 20 minutes before the helicopters were scheduled to land the reserve company in the open rice patties, he was alerted. This was near the western edge of back where the company of the 261st Main Force Vietkong Battalion awaited and another treeine sketched by van along a canal farther west. His radio operators had warned him about the upcoming landing by monitoring the Army of the Republic of Vietnam frequencies. It was now 10:20 a.m.

 and the fog had lifted. The dark green silhouettes of the angle worms, a name used by the gorillas for the bentpipe H21s and the dippers, their nickname for the Hueies, were now visible in the bright sunshine. Sergeant Firstclass Arnold Bowers, a 29-year-old from a Minnesota dairy farm and a member of the 101st Airborne Division, heard the sharp crack of the first bullet piercing the aluminum skin of his helicopter while it was just 50 ft in the air.

Bowers was on the second helicopter in the flight. This was his first war. In the 8 and a half months he had been in Vietnam, he had only encountered a few skirmishes with snipers. The whip cracked repeatedly over the noise of the H21’s engines. The moment the helicopter landed in the patty, Bowowers jumped out into the kneedeep water with a squad of infantry and the Army of the Republic of Vietnam first lieutenant in charge.

 With the engines silent, Bowers heard the loud roar of automatic gunfire and rifles coming from the dense green foliage ahead. Bullets zipped by, buzzing around his ears and ripping through the air above. Driven by his training, he moved forward, the gray mud pulling at his boots. He believed that to survive, his best chance was to move and fire until he could overpower his enemy.

 The lieutenant and the ARVN soldiers had different ideas. They dove behind the first patty dyke they could find about 15 yards from the helicopter. Bowers shouted at the lieutenant to return fire and maneuver out of the open or they would all perish in the patty. The lieutenant replied that he could not understand Bowers.

Back at the airrip, the lieutenant had clearly understood Bowowers’s English while they waited to board the helicopters. The lieutenant was a graduate of the company level officers course at the infantry school in Fort Benning. Bowers served as the staff operations sergeant for the advisory detachment but often volunteered for patrols and assaults.

Van appreciating his initiative asked him that morning if he wanted to join the reserve as they lacked a regular adviser. Bowowers agreed to go. He shouted at the lieutenant again. The lieutenant looked at Bowowers, fear evident in his eyes, and pressed his body against the low dyke and into the water and mud to shield himself from the bullets.

Bowers glanced to the right and noticed one of the ARVN sergeants from a helicopter further back in the flight path. This sergeant had a squad crawling toward the treeine to the south. Bowers jumped up, disregarding the bullets, and sprinted as fast as the mud allowed him. He flung himself down into a quick crawl the moment he passed the sergeant.

 He aimed to keep the squad moving before they could hesitate and stop. Bowowers had observed on previous missions that the ARVN non-commissioned officers, unlike their officers, seemed to appreciate assistance. He believed that an American sergeant was superior enough for them to blame if anything went wrong.

 He noticed they were not educated city folks like the officers. Instead, they were former peasants who had a stronger willingness to fight. As he crawled, he planned his next step. He intended to move into the southern treeine with his squad. The goal was to outflank the gorillas hiding in the western treeine ahead. Once they gained some initiative, other squads might also move in.

 At the very least, he could provide cover fire from the trees to ease the pressure on the company and the patties. The gorillas were focused on shooting at the main part of the company further back near the lieutenant. With each inch they crawled, they heard fewer bullets whizzing overhead or striking the dyke. They had traveled around 150 yards and were nearing the treeine.

Bowers spotted someone sprinting through the trees. He guessed it was a gorilla messenger. The man was so focused that he did not notice them. Bowers had not received any updates about the situation at back hamlet before getting onto the helicopters. He was unaware there were gorillas on the other side of the stream in front of him.

 Seeing the runner suggested that some might be nearby. Still, he felt no apprehension, even though his own weaponry was limited. He carried just a carbine and two 30 round clips of ammunition. Once they reached the woods, the squad could use the trees as cover, similar to the Vietkong. Suddenly, the sergeant, lagging about 15 to 20 yards behind, began shouting.

 He mixed Vietnamese with pigeon English while gesturing for Bowowers to turn back. The Vietnamese pointed to his radio, then back toward the lieutenant, indicating an order to return. “Damn,” Bowers muttered to himself. He felt determined to challenge the lieutenant’s command. “Did I?” he yelled, which meant go in Vietnamese.

 American advisers often used it to mean come on. He motioned the sergeant to follow him and then turned back toward the trees. After crawling a few yards, Bowowers looked back. He was attempting to execute a one-man flanking maneuver. Meanwhile, the sergeant and the squad were retreating toward the lieutenant. Van from the L19 watched helplessly as helicopters were shot down.

 The Vietkong officers had been preparing their troops for months, hoping for a chance like this. During an assault landing the previous summer, an H21 crew chief was shocked to see a gorilla kneeling about 75 yards away. The gorilla aimed his rifle at the American in the helicopter door. Instead of taking the shot, he swung his rifle in front of the helicopter and fired into the air. Then he did it again.

 The crew chief, regaining his senses, shot the gorilla. This story spread among helicopter crews and advisers, bringing laughter. However, after today, those who remembered it would understand they should feel a chill. This gorilla had not done well. Others would prove to be more effective.

 He had tried a flawed version of a technique that hunters used to bring down flying geese and ducks. It is known as lead. In warfare, this means shooting ahead so that the aircraft flies into the bullets. The training groups that Van found near the Cambodian border on July 20th were teaching this technique to select crews using 50 caliber machine guns.

 At the same time, the Vietkong leadership instructed all their troops to apply this method with their individual weapons. They distributed mimograph pamphlets explaining how to calculate the lead based on the angle of approach and the aircraft’s speed. A wider angle and greater speed required more lead. The slow H21 needed the shortest lead while the faster Huey needed a bit more.

The fast fixedwing fighter bombers considered vulnerable required the most lead. The best time to shoot at the H21s was when they were landing slowly. Usually the proper lead is 2/3 of the fuselage when the aircraft is landing. One Vietkong pamphlet stated. The inaccuracies of this estimate were not important.

 What mattered was developing the habit of shooting ahead. The officers and non-commissioned officers drilled the men constantly to ensure this became a reflexive action. To save ammunition and minimize the risk of being discovered, most of the training involved dry firing exercises at the camps located on the plane of Reeds and in various other safe spots.

 Cardboard replicas of H21s, Hueies, and fighter bombers were pulled along a string between two poles to mimic an aircraft in flight. Gorillas learned to keep firing in front of them once they started shooting, using the paths of red and green tracer bullets to gauge their accuracy. These tracer bullets were placed every few rounds in the clips of captured American ammunition and in the belts of bullets for the machine guns.

Vietkong machine gunners and Browning automatic rifle operators who could effectively take down fighter bombers received the most thorough training. Guerrilla officers stressed to their troops the importance of restraint until an entire squad, platoon, or company could fire together. Coordinated fire provided the best chance to damage or destroy an aircraft.

 A helicopter on the ground unloading troops posed no need for lead. The flight leader of the H21 could not have helped the Vietkong more by ignoring the instructions given by Van. Even after being warned that there were Vietkong in the southern treeine, he assumed there were none in the western treeine. He initially flew the group of helicopters low over the western edge of Tanthoy.

Some gorillas from the five of 14th regionals let loose their fire. This heightened the excitement for their comrades in back as they anticipated the iron birds coming into range. The 10 H21s flew low over the western tree line along the irrigation dyke at back. They then landed in a disorganized sequence in the flooded patties about 200 yards ahead.

 The gorillas had enough time to calm their initial excitement and fear, making adjustments to their aim until they consistently struck the helicopters. The pilots of the five escorting Hueies dove toward the gorillas as soon as the shooting started. The cop pilots targeted their aiming devices on the trees and activated the machine guns and rockets.

 Typically, a strafing run from the Hueies would suppress ground fire. However, this time the Vietkong responded in kind. Tracer bullets from their machine guns and Browning automatic rifles began reaching for the Hueies. One Huey dove down for a strafing run, tracking closely with the helicopter as the pilot pulled up at the end. Much of the Hueie’s firepower went to waste on the southern tree line.

 The gorillas on the other side of the stream were not firing at the H21s, landing the reserve due to the trees blocking their view. The co-pilots in the Hueies struggled to aim their guns and rockets accurately. They couldn’t see the fox holes in the dyke through the treetops and thick foliage. They felt rattled by the unexpected resistance and the bullets striking their helicopters.

Every H21 took multiple hits. The helicopters at the back of the formation suffered the most damage. The Vietkong could focus their fire better since they had fewer aircraft to target. A helicopter, especially one as large as the H21 with an aluminum fuselage, can take many bullets and still stay airborne as long as vital components remain unhit.

 All but one of the aircraft managed to take off. The pilot reported that the controls had failed. He stated he was shutting down the engine. He along with his capilot and two enlisted crewmen would join the Army of the Republic of Vietnam in the rice patty. In the brief period when the war felt like an adventure, the helicopter crews followed a strict code of camaraderie.

 This code dictated that any crew on the ground had to be rescued immediately, even with Saigon troops nearby. One H21 circled back to save the downed crew. The pilots landed in the worst possible spot, right between the helicopter in the Patty and the dyke. Their attempt at rescue ended with their aircraft being shot down. The code called for another rescue effort to pick up two crews.

 Now, the command pilot of the Huey gunship platoon declared over the radio that he was going in for them. Van, a risk-taker circling overhead in the L19, felt frustrated by this reckless chivalry, but chose not to intervene. He understood the pilots would not listen to him. The lead Huey flew low over the two H21s so the pilots and the crew chief could spot the men on the ground.

 The other four Hueies strafed and launched rockets at both tree lines. In a desperate effort to limit the Vietkong fire, the Huey platoon leader turned his helicopter. He aimed for a landing behind two H21s, trying to use the downed aircraft as cover from the treeine near the dyke. As he approached the ground, his air speed decreased, causing him to hover.

 The gorillas took advantage of this and repeatedly hit his helicopter. A bullet struck the main rotor blade, causing the Huey to flip onto its right side and crash into the patty about 50 yards from the H21s. The Vietkong had achieved an unfortunate milestone in the war. Within 5 minutes, they had shot down four helicopters.

One H21 was damaged enough that it had to land in a rice patty over a mile away, but the crew managed to escape unharmed. The gorillas had successfully hit every helicopter except for one Huey. Bowowers jumped up and sprinted toward the downed Huey. The water was shallow to his right where he had gone with the squad, and the patty was mostly damp near the wreck. He made good time.

When he arrived, the turbine engine was screaming wildly. With the main rotor blade damaged, it was malfunctioning dangerously. Bowers feared it might heat up, explode, and ignite the fuel tanks. The pilot in the left seat had managed to escape and was stumbling toward a nearby mound in the patty, seeking shelter from the bullets.

Bowowers yelled at him, but the pilot did not respond. Bowers guessed he was too disoriented to assist in rescuing the other pilot and the crew chief who were still trapped inside. The helicopter was nearly overturned, resting on the ground. The right door was partially crushed into the mud, but Bowers managed to slide the window open just enough to unbuckle the pilot’s seat belt and pull him out.

 The man was dazed and had a leg injury from the crash. Showing some awareness, he wrapped his arm around Bowowers’s shoulder to help steady himself as they made their way to the mound. Bowowers quickly returned to save the crew chief, an older black sergeant named William Deal. The engine continued to scream. An occasional bullet struck the fuselage.

Deal was strapped in a side seat behind the cockpit. He was still using the extra machine gun he had aimed at the gorillas. He found himself nearly upside down due to the angle of the aircraft. Bowers thought that his only chance to save Deal before the helicopter exploded was to pull him out from the front.

 He kicked in the plexiglass of the cockpit windshield and climbed inside. He assumed that deal had been knocked out from the impact. The crash helmets worn by pilots and crew had built-in earphones and a microphone for communication. The wire from Deal’s helmet was tangled up.

 Bowowers unfassened the chin strap and took off the helmet so he could free Deal. After unbuckling the seat belt, as he removed the helmet, he realized he was trying to save a man who was already dead. Deal had been shot in the head and seemed to have died instantly. The engine was silent now, having burned out without exploding.

 Still, Bowowers decided to pull Deal from the wreckage. He was strong from his farm upbringing and military service, looking like a typical country boy. His family had roots in Ireland and Germany, migrating to Minnesota from Iowa via the coal mines in North Dakota. He was taller than Van with sharp features and long arms, but he shared Van’s slim and wiry build at 150 lb. Deal was much larger.

Dragging him was a challenge. Bowers managed to get him out into the patty and began pulling him toward a mound, gripping Deal’s flight suit under his armpits. The loud explosion from what sounded like a rocket launched by the gorillas reminded Bowers that he was acting foolishly. “I can’t do anything for him.

He’s dead, he thought. He laid Deal’s body down in the patty, feeling no disrespect because the ground was not flooded. In America’s first televised war, Deal’s seven-year-old son, back in Ma’s Landing, New Jersey, watched his father in action on television the same day he learned of his death. The family was watching a news broadcast when a clip of a previous helicopter operation appeared.

 “Look, that’s my daddy!” the boy shouted to his mother. Just 6 hours later, a telegram arrived from the Pentagon. Bowers crawled forward toward the second H21 that had been brought down. He spotted one of the crew members lying in the water beside a wheel. The aircraft was in the rice field, just like its counterpart. The blast Bowers mistook for a bazooka rocket signaled an effort by the Vietkong commander to celebrate his men’s achievements.

 He aimed to destroy the helicopters in the field. A squad was sent along the tree line to the north, hoping to ignite the helicopters with rifle grenades. These grenades attached to the end of the barrel and are launched using the force from a blank cartridge. Bowers heard the first grenade explode, but the gorillas and their leader were frustrated.

 The helicopters were out of range. The grenades they fired detonated harmlessly in the sky. Burning the helicopters held significant psychological value, and the battalion commander did not want to miss the chance. He used six valuable shells from his platoon’s 60 mm mortar, the heaviest weapon at his disposal. Those also missed, creating only splashes of muck and water.

 Since the mortarmen were inexperienced back in 1963, by the time Bowers reached the H21, the mortar fire had stopped. Next to the wheel, a private first class, the rear door machine gunner, crouched in the water. He mentioned that the pilots were with the Army of the Republic of Vietnam behind the dyke and had left him and his wounded crew chief, Specialist Fourth Class Donald Braymond, who was 21 years old, behind. “I can’t get him out.

 Every time I try to climb back in there, they start shooting at me,” he said while pointing to the gorillas in the trees. Bowowers instructed the soldier to crawl to the dyke where the pilots hid near the Vietnamese lieutenant, assuring him he would take care of his friend. As Bowers climbed through the door, several gorilla riflemen spotted him and opened fire.

 The H21 silhouette in the rice field caused the Vietkong to shoot high. They lost sight of Bowers once he was inside. Though bullets pierced the upper fuselage, creating a terrifying scene, Bowowers believed he had a good chance of staying safe as long as he remained low on the aluminum floor where Bramman lay between the two doors.

 In a few minutes, the gorillas stopped wasting their ammunition on a lifeless machine. Breman was alert and did not seem seriously injured. He had been shot while bravely firing his carbine at the Vietkong from the helicopter door as the H21 landed. He had emptied one magazine and was bending down to reload when he was struck in the shoulder.

 Ironically, all four crew members from the first H21, which Braymond’s helicopter had tried to save, had escaped into the rice field unhe hurt. Bowowers cut away Braymond’s flight suit to examine the wound. It did not appear severe. The full metal jacketed bullet, likely American ammunition, had created a clean entry wound at the top of the shoulder and exited just below the shoulder blade.

There was some bleeding from the exit site, but it was minimal. Most soldiers carry a first aid bandage in a pouch on their belt. Bowowers used Braymond’s bandage to cover the top of the wound. He also used his own bandage to dress the bullet exit below the shoulder blade, tying the cotton strips around Brahman’s neck and shoulders to keep the pad in place.

 He then made Brahman lie on his back to apply pressure to the lower bandage and stop the bleeding. Bowers decided that Braymond would be just as safe inside the helicopter and better off because the dirty water would not infect the wound. He explained this to Braymond who said he understood. Bowowers offered Braymond a drink from his canteen and then lay next to him for a few minutes chatting.

 He noticed that Brmond was trying to stay brave and he wanted to support him. Braymond took his wallet out of his pocket and placed it beside him. Using his good arm, he picked it up and showed Bowowers a picture of his wife in one of the plastic photo sleeves. “Gee, I really hope I get home to see her again,” Bramman said.

 Bowers assured him that he would. Don’t worry, you’re not badly hurt. He said you’ll be okay and we’ll get you out of here soon. He told Bramman that he had to go, but would stay close and not abandon him. Bowers crawled back to the door on the far side and rolled out into the rice field, drawing another round of gunfire. When Bowowers returned to the Vietnamese lieutenant, the lieutenant had regained his ability to speak English.

 He asked why Bowowers had halted the flanking movement into the southern treeine. The lieutenant warned that splitting the company in this situation was too risky. Everyone needed to stay together. While crawling back, Bowowers realized he had been right. The company would suffer more casualties out in the patty field than if they moved.

 Staying still had let the gorillas focus on the helicopters and then attacked the company at their convenience. Many of the dead and wounded had been shot in the back and buttocks. Bowers surmised some gorillas must have been in the trees. They were likely getting plunging fire that struck soldiers behind the irrigation dyke. He did not notice the dyke was high enough to provide the Vietkong with a clear view into the rice field.

 The gorilla squad that had moved along the treeine to burn the helicopters took some hits from the left flank as well. The surviving soldiers, both injured and uninjured, pressed against the dyke, just like the lieutenant. Most of them were not firing back at the gorillas, whose shooting had slowed to sporadic bursts.

 The Vietkong discouraged anyone who tried to shoot blindly over the dyke, mimicking the civil guardsmen from the morning. Just 10 to 15 accurate shots hitting the dyke were enough to make them stop firing without a chance to raise their rifles again. Bowers thought of a plan to get everyone out of this situation and evacuate Braymond and the Vietnamese wounded.

He intended to blast the Vietkong out of the irrigation dyke using artillery or air strikes. He couldn’t see the gorillas during the day. He had only spotted three Vietkong. The first was running along the southern treeine and the other two were on the dyke. However, from the sound of their weapons and bullet paths, it was clear they were under the trees on the dyke.

 The lieutenant had a multi-channel field radio. Before getting on the helicopter, Bowers had received the frequency for Van. Van, who had a similar field radio in the L19, communicated with Ziggler at the division command post. His call sign was topper 6. Bowers planned to reach out to Van using the lieutenant’s radio.

Bowowers used the radio to explain the situation of the company and the helicopter crews. He needed to pass Bowowers instructions to either the artillery fire direction center or a forward air controller. Bowers had experience in this area. He trained as a forward observer for an 8-in mortar company.

 Later he served as a mortar platoon sergeant before moving to staff operations. Batteries of 105 mm howitzers and heavy 4.2in 2-in mortars were positioned along the main Delta Road to the south and a canal to the east. This setup allowed them to fire shells over the entire action area. Bowers told the lieutenant he needed to use his radio for this reason.

 In the past, borrowing a radio from the Vietnamese had not been a problem. That was why Bowowers had not brought his own. The lieutenant refused. He insisted on keeping the radio tuned to his frequency to receive orders from the division. Bowowers argued that artillery or air strikes would rescue them. He warned that the Vietkong might charge out of the treeine and overrun the company.

 The lieutenant still would not agree. The artillery forward observer assigned to the company was a second lieutenant. He controlled the only other multi-channel radio lying about 10 yards from the company commander. He was in touch with the fire direction center at the division command post back at Tanhip Airststrip, relaying instructions to the batteries.

The observer intermittently called for shells, but was too scared to raise his head to see where they landed. He could not correct the range or guide the fire closer to the gorilla’s foxhole line as Bowers wanted. Bowers observed the shells falling into the patty between the gorillas and the company.

 He had worked with this observer before and knew his English was limited. Bowers kept his instructions simple. He called out to add 100 meters. In his fear, the observer did not seem to hear or understand. Bowers shouted the instruction again. He then asked the company commander to translate into Vietnamese. This graduate of Fort Benning also struggled to speak English.

 Bowers crawled over to the observer and said, “Give me the radio. I will adjust the fire. Both the observer and the company commander replied in English. They insisted that Bowowers could not have the radio. The observer needed to communicate with artillery. The company commander explained. Bowers realized the two lieutenants were scared.

 They feared that if he used the radio, they would be ordered to move, meaning they would have to leave their safe spot behind the dyke. After calling in eight artillery shells with no results, a bullet struck the soldier carrying the observer’s radio. Another bullet damaged the radio itself.

 The observer quickly dove into the mud. About half an hour into their time in the rice patty, hope arrived in the form of two AD6 Skyraider fighter bombers. The planes dropped napalm, but it didn’t hit the gorillas. Instead, the pilots targeted the thatched houses behind the irrigation dyke. Some of those homes were already on fire from the Huey rockets.

 The heat from the napalm was so intense that it made it hard to breathe even in the rice field. Bowowers wondered how the Vietkong could endure such oppressive heat and the choking effects of the jellied gasoline. He crouched down to see if the gorillas would flee. Many of the Saigon infantrymen thought their troubles were over and stood up to watch the planes bomb the flaming homes.

Suddenly, two soldiers next to Bowowers were hit and fell dead from rifle fire coming from the treeine. The rest quickly dropped back down. Bowers stayed crouched for a moment longer, unsure if the Vietkong would remain. He scanned the treeine for any signs of movement, but found none. The gorillas seemed to be holding their ground.

 For the first time since arriving in Vietnam, Bowers felt a bit of respect for the Vietkong. He called out to the ARVN lieutenant still hiding behind the dyke. Come on, give me that radio. We’ll flush them out. I’ll get the planes to drop Napalm right on that tree line. The lieutenant shook his head and said, “No, no, npalm. Too close.

 Too close to us.” Bowowers considered shooting the lieutenant to take the radio as he would have done with any cowardly American officer endangering paratroopers. However, he instantly dismissed the thought. He was a good non-commissioned officer who followed orders. The army had told him he was just an adviser in Vietnam with no command authority.

 They said it was their war. At Fort Bragg, North Carolina before leaving in March, he received orders to handle the Vietnamese with tact and diplomacy. The pilots from the downed helicopter were no help with the Vietnamese lieutenant. Ground fighting was not their area of expertise. He gazed down the dyke. The terrified infantrymen were huddled against it.

 He thought about what would happen if the gorillas charged from the treeine. There was no way he could get these men to fight back. The company would be overrun and they would all perish. While in the helicopter tending to Braymond’s wound, he had noticed a pack of cigarettes and matches in an open cration box.

 He took them and tucked them into his fatigue shirt pocket. He had quit smoking a month ago after betting another sergeant a fifth of whiskey that he could kick the habit. Now he figured he might as well enjoy a smoke. He lay back against the dyke and lit one up. In the backseat of the spotter plane, Van felt trapped.

He was consumed by anger and frustration. He had an adviser and three helicopter crews on the ground. He couldn’t tell if they were dead or wounded. These Americans and the ARVN infantry with them were in peril of being overrun. To make matters worse, he could not get anyone to help them. When the Huey crashed, he quickly adjusted the dial on the portable field radio wedged between his legs in the cramped L19.

 He tuned into the frequency of captains James Scanland and Robert Maize. They were with the company of M113 armored personnel carriers he had seen about a mile northwest. Scanland 31 in Stocky was the adviser to the armored regiment at myth. This regiment was commanded by Major Tho the province chief. Maize 32 in Lanki spoke in a measured tone.

 He served as Scanland’s deputy and regularly advised Captain Liong Ba, commander of the M13 company. Although Scanland’s role was to advise the entire regiment, he spent most of his time with Bos Company and another M113 unit attached to the 21st division in the southern Delta. These units were the most active armored forces.

Walrus, this is Topper 6 over, Van said, letting go of the button on the telephone style microphone, waiting for a response from Mae or Scandlin. Topper 6, this is Walrus over, Scanland said in response. Walrus, I have three. Repeat. Three helicopters down. A rifle company is pinned down in the patties due southeast of you at X-ray Sierra 309539.

Van check the map coordinates to ensure Scanland understood correctly. Tell your counterpart to get his vehicles over here as fast as he can. Make sure he understands the urgency. Roger. Topper 6, Scanland responded. Van confirmed Scanland’s reply with this is topper 6 out. Following army radio procedure, he instructed the pilot of the L19 to dive down for a low pass over the wrecked Huey and the infantry hiding behind the dyke.

 He noticed the Army of the Republic of Vietnam troops were not returning fire against what he described in a report as withering fire from the western treeine of Bach. The echo of enemy automatic weapons and the intermittent tracers confirmed that the Vietkong targeted the spotter plane, a tougher target than the helicopters. Van kept the army pilot in the danger zone for several more passes to assess the situation of the company and the helicopter crews.

 The small aircraft managed to avoid being hit. As they climbed back to altitude after the last pass, Scanland returned with troubling news. I have a problem, Topper 6, he added. My counterpart refuses to move. Doesn’t he understand this is an emergency? Van questioned. I relayed your description exactly, Topper 6. But he said, “I don’t take orders from Americans,” Scanland replied.

 “I’ll get back to you, Walrus,” Van stated. He switched frequencies and contacted Ziegler at the command post near the airrip. Van provided a brief account of the situation and requested that Dam order Captain Ba to head for back immediately with his M113s. This situation is absolutely critical. Van emphasized the command post was already aware of the downed helicopters from radio traffic.

 Ziggler returned shortly after confirming that Dam had agreed and was issuing the order through division radio channels. From his position circling about 1,000 ft above back, Van observed the rectangular shapes of the 13 carriers below. He instructed the pilot to head towards them. Once they reached the armored vehicles, he changed frequencies and contacted Scandlin again.

 He pointed out the column of white smoke rising from the houses burning due to rockets and tracer bullets fired by the helicopters. Tell your counterpart that I’m passing on an order from his division commander. Van said he needs to move towards that column of smoke immediately. He must leave now. Captain Bob began directing the M113s towards back.

 Almost right away, they faced a canal with steep banks. These highbanked canals, streams, and rivers were the main obstacles that slowed the movement of the M13s across the delta. The amphibious vehicles could easily swim, but the tracks lacked enough grip in the soft mud on the steep banks to pull the 10-tonon carriers out of the water.

 The infantry soldiers riding in the M113s and their crews would have to exit and cut brush and trees until the canal was filled high enough for one or more carriers to cross. The weight of the vehicles would compact the brush into the canal bottom. The last vehicle across would then tow the next one by cable, continuing until all vehicles had crossed the canal.

This particular canal would take about an hour to navigate. The alternative was to find another location with lower banks where the tracks could gain traction. However, Captain Ba did not go looking for one. Instead, he spent several minutes speaking in Vietnamese over the radio. To Scanland, who understood some of the language, it seemed like he was requesting guidance from his superiors.

Then he hesitated again, not wanting to proceed. The canal would take too long to cross. “Why don’t they send the infantry?” he asked, gesturing to the lines of riflemen marching along the Patty dikes nearby. “These infantrymen belong to the third company of the division battalion advancing on Tantoy from the north and had landed a little over an hour ago.

Because the helicopter lifts for the second and third companies had been delayed for 2 and a half hours, Van arranged for them to be dropped farther south than originally intended. Scanland connected with the first company that had arrived at 7:03 a.m. He was taken aback by Buzz’s hesitation. Ba’s boldness had stood out against the cautiousness of most Army of the Republic of Vietnam officers.

 Leong Ba was a peer of Scandlin, just 10 months younger. Unlike others, he fought alongside the Americans instead of opposing them. His family was well off in the Delta with a history serving the French Empire. His father was conscripted into the French army during World War I and sent to France. The armistice on November 11th, 1918 spared him from dying in the trenches.

 After returning home, he became a sergeant major in the guard in Deene. Later, he farmed with Ba’s uncles, acquiring about 2,500 acres of rice land in the southern Delta. Ba grew up alongside the sons of landless laborers who relied on his father. He had watched over his father’s water buffaloos with them, riding on their backs while wearing a conical straw hat to shield himself from the sun.

 After being sent to the Lay in Cantho for a French education, he lost touch with those childhood friends. In 1950, he attended the French sponsored officer candidate school at Hugh. Meanwhile, many of his old friends went in different directions with many joining the Vietmin. Before the second communistled insurrection forced his father to flee to Canantho, he kept track of the families of his workers.

 He occasionally mentioned the names of Ba’s Buffalo boy friends who had become Vietkong officers. Ba was intelligent and in a country known for beautiful women, he was considered handsome. His heritage reflected the typical diversity of the Delta, predominantly Vietnamese with some Chinese ancestry and possibly a hint of Cambodian, which contributed to his slightly darker skin tone.

 He had a cheerful disposition and genuinely enjoyed being a soldier. Though he had a tendency to exaggerate, his bravado might have been the reason he joined the armored cavalry and dedicated his last years there of the French war leading a platoon of armored cars in North Vietnam. Between the French war and this one, he received thorough training in France and the United States.

 First, he spent a year at the French armored cavalry officer school in Sour located in the Lir Valley. Then he trained for another year in 1957 to 1958 at the armor school at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Scanland was taken aback because Ba had always been decisive in the past. Whenever guerrillas were spotted, Ba charged right toward them.

 Everyone viewed the M113 company as nearly unbeatable with its combination of armored mobility and firepower. Though the Vietkong were reported to have a few 57mm recoilless rifles, they had never been encountered in action. The 50 caliber heavy machine gun mounted on 12 of the 13 carriers was another marvel from John Browning.

This weapon could easily tear through earth defenses and knock down trees with its powerful rounds. The 13th carrier, a newer edition, was equipped with a flamethrower in a turret instead of the 50 caliber. Each M113 also carried a squad of 12 infantrymen armed with Browning automatic rifles and M16 rifles trained to dismount and attack in synchronization with the armored vehicles.

 BA often undertook independent missions because his unit was trusted to handle any threats from the Vietkong. His spirited leadership and the shock value of the machines demonstrated by the slaughter on September 18th led the M113 company to kill and capture more Vietkong than any other group in the 7th division.

 Ba’s declaration that he would not lead and that the infantry should go instead sparked a half hour of intense debate. A brief foot reconnaissance by Maize and Ba revealed a second highbanked canal behind the first one after the carriers reached the initial canal. The M113s were faced with a double canal that would take two hours to cross at that location.

 Boss seized on this as a reason to abstain from action. He appeared unmoved by Scandlin and Mazes. appeals to his compassion. Three helicopter crews and an entire company of Army of the Republic of Vietnam infantry were at risk of being killed or captured. “We can’t cross the canal,” he would say, insisting that the infantry battalion could reach Bach much quicker.

Soon, Scanland and Maize, who were with Ba on top of his carrier, began shouting at him, and he shouted back. Van was circling above in the spotter plane, furious with all three, trying to push the advisers to act and to shame Ba into moving as well. Ba understood English well and heard everything Van yelled as the portable radio Scanland and Maize used featured a loudspeaker and a pushb button microphone.

Scan noticed Van’s anger increase. Each shout raised Van’s voice by a quarter of an octave. I told you to do something and you’re not doing it, he scolded Scandlin. Why can’t you get that guy moving? He has his order from the division commander. Scanland then turned to Ba. Are you afraid to go over there? He asked.

 Ba replied, “No, then why won’t you go?” Scanland yelled. “We’re just sitting here staring at two canals. There’s got to be another place to cross if we start looking.” Ba repeated his reasons. “Jesus Christ, this is unbearable.” Van’s high-pitched voice came through the radio again. That guy has armored tracks and heavy machine guns.

 He’s scared of a bunch of Vietnamese communists with small arms. What’s wrong with him? We’re doing the best we can. Topper 6, answered Scandlin. Your best isn’t enough, Walrus. Van shot back. This is an emergency. Those people are lying out there exposed. I want you to make him move. Scan realized that Van often threw tantrums when frustrated.

 Van had usually respected him and avoided such outbursts in the past, but this was a unique situation. Scan imagined Van in the back seat, gritting his teeth, the redness from anger blending with his sunburn, with veins bulging in his neck. Scan understood that much of Van’s anger wasn’t directed solely at him and Maize.

Van likely believed that his chance for success depended on shaming Ba and pushing the two advisers to apply more pressure. Ba was right. Scanland thought the infantry could reach back faster than the M113s. Van, like many officers who did not specialize in armor, underestimated how long it took for the carriers to cross canals.

 There would be even more canals between their current location and back. However, Scanland figured Van had other motives for wanting the carriers to conduct the rescue. He was correct in this assumption and mistaken in thinking Van did not understand the canal issues. Van was aware that the canals could significantly slow down the M113s which fueled his anger.

 The previous September, he had requested portable bridging equipment for the company. This would allow the crews and mounted infantry to avoid stopping to cut down trees and brush. Like most of his requests, it had gone unfulfilled by Harkkins’s headquarters. He had to send the armored vehicles to Bach because using the division infantry battalion would lead to failure.

 If the battalion commander realized he was being asked to attack entrenched Vietkong, he would ensure his battalion never reached back. By pulling the battalion away from advancing toward Tanthoy, Van would not be able to save the Americans or the pinned down reserve. Instead, he would only create a safe retreat for the gorillas to the north along the tree lines.

 He refused to let the Vietkong escape. They had shot down four helicopters and ignited his anger. Ba’s armored vehicles were his only chance to save the men at back and defeat the gorillas. He was trying to provoke Scandlin and Maize while shaming Ba into going to Bach. But this was just one reason for his fury.

 His anger and frustration had been building for 5 and a half months since the disaster of July 20th. Each week his sense of helplessness grew as Cow began to fake operations in mid-occtober. He had warned that there would be consequences if Harkkins did not force Cao to fight and allowed the communists to continue taking American weapons from the outposts.

None of this would have occurred if the command in Saigon had fulfilled its obligations in the war. Now the moment of reckoning arrived. The captain in charge of the M113s, one of the few respectable officers in this dreadful army, was acting like the rest of the cowardly men. John Van was supposed to maneuver 13 10-tonon carriers across a mile of rice patties and canals.

 He aimed to salvage this disaster by making magic from the back of a spotter plane. He continually checked with Ziegler to see if Dam had given the order to Ba. Dam kept reassuring him that he had. You could never be sure about what these people were communicating over the radio. They deceived you and each other. What Van did not grasp due to his anger clouding his judgment was the reason behind Ba’s hesitation.

The fear of coups that haunted DM and his family had placed Ba in a tough position. Getting Damn to command Ba to move was not enough. Van required Major Tho to issue the order, but no one from the Saigon side would inform him of that. Before December, Bos Company had been directly assigned to the Seventh Division.

 DM realized that while armored personnel carriers were not as effective in a coup as tanks, they could still serve as potential tools for overthrowing or protecting his regime. Therefore, he decided to secure more anti- coupoo insurance. During his reorganization of the armed forces in December, he removed the two companies of M113s in the Delta from divisional command and assigned them to the armored regiment under tham had instructed Ba to proceed to Bach.

However, Ba could not contact th on the radio to ascertain those intentions, and he feared leaving without those approval. From what he understood, the presidential palace would likely disapprove of the events at back, though for his own sake might prefer that none of his subordinates become involved. If Ba acted without those consent, he risked reprimand and dismissal.

 His career had already faced setbacks for political reasons. Being a Buddhist, he had been falsely accused of sympathizing with the leaders of the failed 1960 paratrooper coup. Although he cleared his name, DM kept a close watch on him and stalled his promotion to major. Beneath Ba’s facade of confidence, he was a conservative individual.

 He did not lack bravery. Yet, he was not a professional risktaker like Van. He had served as an officer in an army colonized by forces that ultimately lost their war. He was fighting a second war for the Tory regime of his class. He was acting exactly as one might expect from someone raised in a system that valued inaction in times of uncertainty.

 He was stalling. Van’s bullying over the radio only made things worse. He was increasing Ba’s resistance. Ba, out of his pride, had come to resent the superiority complex exhibited by these Americans. Van had initially been cordial, and their interactions had been straightforward and easy, except when Van’s demeanor became overbearing.

 At those times, Ba found him particularly irritating. Ba was unaware of the bottled up emotions driving Van’s harsh words and the extent to which Van himself was trapped within the American system. In the United States Army, when a combat emergency arose, senior officers would issue direct orders and everyone followed them on the spot.

 Van instinctively reverted to this way of operating in his current crisis. After a half hour of shouting, Ba reluctantly agreed to let Scandlin return south. Scanland was to find a crossing site he had seen on the way up, where they had encountered the infantry and been blocked by the double canal. Van took off to persuade the civil guards to maneuver and dislodge the Vietkong at back.

 He instructed the L19 pilot to make a few passes over the first civil guard battalion. This battalion had opened the battle by engaging the gorillas across the stream south of the hamlet. Van noticed the civil guardsmen lounging around, their heads resting against the patty dikes, either resting or napping. If any Vietkong remained under the trees in front of them, they had clearly stopped shooting, and the Saigon troops were mirroring this silence.

Van surmised that the gorillas in the southern treeine, having stalled the civil guards, focused their attention on the reserve company as soon as it landed behind them. Regardless, the civil guards were now perfectly positioned to flank right and disrupt the Vietkong’s position along the irrigation dyke on the western edge of back.

Van radioed Ziegler, suggesting that Dam should instruct Tho to order the civil guards to launch an assault around this vulnerable flank. Van’s lieutenant with the civil guards, who also could not access a radio to communicate with his commander above, had since the helicopters arrived at the reserve at 10:20 a.m.

, there had been efforts to convince the Vietnamese captain leading the battalion to take action. The gorillas had stopped firing when the helicopters showed up. The lieutenant shared Van’s assessment. He had been urging the Civil Guard commander, who had a minor leg injury, to advance through the coconut grove on the right.

 That area was where the guerilla platoon was hiding this and they could use it for cover to counter the Vietkong. However, the Vietnamese captain kept insisting that Major Tho ordered him to maintain his blocking position. That term had lost its original meaning from the hammer and anvil tactic Van wanted to use on July 20th.

 Now it was just a way for the Saigon commanders to explain in action. Though was trying to avoid further losses among his civil guards. When Dam called th at Van’s request, urging him to order his troops to flank, though ignored the instruction. From the plane, Van noticed the second civil guard battalion still advancing from the southwest, checking hamlets along the route, though was not eager for them to reach back.

 The infantry battalion moving south from the north had also not arrived at the hamlet of Tanthoy near back. Suddenly, a voice with a Vietnamese accent came through Van’s portable field radio. It most likely belonged to a lieutenant hiding behind the dyke at back. The voice informed Van that two helicopter crew members were seriously injured.

 Van tried to keep the discussion going to gather more details, but the voice did not respond. He instructed the L19 pilot to return to the M113s and circled low over them. The armored vehicles were right where he had left them. It was now 11:10 a.m., 45 minutes since the Huey had flipped and crashed. He had called Ba earlier to rush to the rescue with his mobile fortresses.

Van found Ba’s refusal to help in this crisis unbelievable. Just 10 minutes before, he had asked Ziggler to ask Dam to reiterate the order to Ba. This time, Dam was to contact Ba directly and instruct him to head to Bach immediately. Typically, orders from the division commander were passed down through the regiment that was in touch with the M113s.

Dam confirmed that he had followed Van’s instructions. Hovering above the vehicle, Van spotted Maize standing next to Ba on top of Ba’s carrier. “Walrus, this is topper six over,” he called out. Maize acknowledged him. “Is your counterpart going to respond, Walrus?” Van inquired. “Negative, Topper 6,” Maize replied.

 “He insists we can’t cross the canal in time, and that division should send the infantry.” Van could not take it anymore. Walrus, can you take that company over there? Can you? Can you? His voice blared through Ma’s radio in a desperate shriek. Maize was surprised by Van’s question. He could get the M113s across the canals to back, but he knew the men would not follow without Ba’s orders.

 Fearful of Van’s fury, he chose to treat the inquiry as hypothetical. “Rogger! Topper six! I could do that,” he answered. “Then shoot that cowardly son of a right now and move out,” Van screamed back. Maize remained silent. He glanced at Ba. They had developed a friendship over the four months Maize served as the company’s adviser.

 Ba did not speak either, but his expression questioned, “Would you shoot me?” Maize reminded Ba that they had crossed a canal earlier in the morning. It was likely this double canal was a point where it was still a single one. Why not drive back, recross it, and head east to Bach from there? Ba agreed.

 Ba doned his radio headset and transmitted an order to the company. The drivers started the engines and the tracks of the carriers churned through the muck and water toward Bach. Van focused on the aviator situation in the rice patty. With two of them seriously wounded, he determined that another helicopter rescue was essential. He flew back to Tan Heap to refuel the L19 and discussed the plan with Ziegler and the senior helicopter pilots.

Van thought the situation with the reserve company might be improving. From what he could see in the air, they were only receiving sporadic gunfire. Since the civil guards in the south were not under fire, it was possible that the Vietkong were withdrawing and attempting to infiltrate out of the area. Van instructed the communications section to check if Bowowers was alive.

He wanted the lieutenant to get him on the radio for reliable information. Unfortunately, the lieutenant did not respond to the regimental headquarters. Van felt they had to take a chance for the wounded aviators. He shared his plan. He and the L19 pilot would serve as decoys to see if the gorillas were still present.

 They would make several low passes over the treetops to provoke gunfire. The spotter plane pilot thought Van was crazy and reckless, but he agreed to participate. Three Huey helicopters were ready for strafing. A fourth helicopter was grounded due to severe damage and unsafe to fly. If the spotter plane attracted little fire and the gorillas were gone from Bach, the Hueies would attack the western and southern tree lines.

 This would suppress any Vietkong left behind while an H21 helicopter retrieved the crew. A second H21 would remain in the air for emergencies. Van still believed the gorillas in the southern treeine had shot down their helicopters that morning. The helicopter pilots, wanting to rescue their wounded, supported the plan.

 Bowers did not realize it was Van flying the L19 when it suddenly appeared. He thought it was Major Herb Pvost from the Air Force who often goed the Vietkong. Bowers imagined today’s flight could provoke the enemy. He knew the Vietkong were still in the western treeine ahead. Earlier, Bramman had made a noise inside the H21, causing the gorillas to shoot at it.

 Bowowers crawled to the helicopter and drew more shots as he got inside. He slid over to Breman and asked what was wrong. Bramman replied it had become so quiet he thought he had been abandoned. He was afraid to move due to his wound, so he tapped his boots against the aluminum floor. Bowers reassured him that no one had left. He was drawing the attention of the wrong people who, as he could hear, were still nearby.

 Luckily, Bramman had not been hit again. The large outline of the H21 had tricked the gorillas into shooting high, and more holes had appeared in the top part of the fuselage. Breman’s condition seemed seemed stable. Bowers checked his wound. There was no fresh bleeding, and Braymond looked to be avoiding shock. He was becoming emotional as the long wait was testing his nerves.

 Bowers gave him another drink of water and lay beside him briefly to offer comfort. Bowowers assured him that help was on the way and that he was safer inside the helicopter as long as he remained quiet. If Bowers had to carry him into the fields, Brmond might take another bullet and the dirty water could infect his wound. Before leaving, Bowers set a canteen by Braymond for when he got thirsty.

 For some reason, the Vietkong did not fire at Bowers as he crawled back out the door to return to the dyke, but he felt certain they were watching him. Van and the pilot of the L19 tried to lure the gorillas with their maneuvers. Van was not content to fly just over the treetops for protection. Instead, he had the pilot pass directly over the downed helicopters twice, making for an easy target.

They made a third pass at a 45 degree angle, exposing the small plane to fire from the southern treeine as well. Bowers muttered to himself that Pvost sure was asking for trouble. No shots were fired. The Vietkong had returned to their discipline of not shooting at spotter planes and waited to see what would happen next.

Bowers heard the sound of a helicopter coming from behind and turned to see an H21 flying directly towards him through the rice field. The pilot was trying to position the downed helicopters between his aircraft and the western treeine just as the pilot of the crashed Huey had attempted.

 Three Huey helicopters appeared and began firing machine guns and rockets at the tree lines to the west and south. In that moment, Bowowers heard the ominous sound of automatic weapons and rifles firing from beneath the trees on the irrigation dyke. The Vietkong battalion commander had spotted the H21 and ordered his troops to open fire.

 The Hueies continued to waste much of their firepower on the southern tree line. This miscalculation, combined with the ineffectiveness of their light 7.62 62mm machine guns and rockets against soldiers hidden in the trees resulted in an unbroken barrage of bullets flying through the air above Bowers, heading toward the H21 as it flew over the rice patty.

 The pilot landed about 30 yards behind the destroyed Huey, but quickly reported that he was leaving because he was taking too many hits. Some of his controls had been damaged, making it very hard for him to keep the helicopter airborne. With help from Van’s pilot, he managed to turn and fly back roughly 3/4 of a mile to where Ba’s M113 armored personnel carriers were crossing a canal.