August 15th, 1969, on patrol outside Firebase 411, a 250lb command bomb picked me up and stopped my heart. Four killed, nine wounded. In this video, you get a precise breakdown, the route we took, our spacing, the hedro and trench we misread, the trigger setup, and the detonation point. I will show the sequence from August 13th to August 15th, where comms failed, where the APCs sat, and how the casualty layout formed.

 Then the fixes we should have used. Flank security, crossing an open field, spacing discipline, terrain checks. One decision that would have saved four men. No stories, just the facts. Let’s start. It was early August. The hill was secured, and we had finished most of the heavy lifting. Our defenses only needed a few improvements, mainly adjusting the placement of claymore mines and trip flares in front of our bunkers.

One late afternoon, we relaxed on our bunker, enjoying a break and chatting. We noticed a line of Vietnamese people to the south of the hill. They were carrying baskets and other items moving west toward the mountains. There were several hundred in the line. The Army of the Republic of Vietnam told us they were villagers bringing food and supplies to the North Vietnamese army in Vietkong in the mountains as they prepared for the rainy season.

Mike looked toward the mountains and said he did not look forward to climbing them. I agreed. We had built Firebase Hill 411 in 30 days. Now it was our turn to patrol outside the safety of the firebase while another company guarded the hill. During the first week of August, the companies patrolling the area outside the hill had many confrontations with the enemy and faced casualties.

The enemy shot down several helicopters, injuring or killing crew members. E- troop armored personnel carriers hit booby traps and suffered losses as well. It did not take long for us to discover a Vietkong presence and a large North Vietnamese army force waiting for us. Our new mission on August 7th was to patrol the horseshoe area located northwest of Hill Fort 11 and west of the river.

Early that morning, the helicopters arrived to transport the platoon to the horseshoe. We flew in, expecting a hot landing zone, so we loaded our weapons as we landed. As usual, we jumped from the helicopters as quickly as possible. Our squad spread out to provide cover for the next two helicopters that were bringing in the rest of the platoon.

The platoon jumped from their helicopters upon landing and moved into thicker vegetation for cover and concealment. The helicopters departed heading back to Duke Fo. We linked up with the rest of the company and patrolled the horseshoe for 5 days. On our first day out, we moved through the area toward the river, encountering no North Vietnamese Army contact.

 The supply helicopter landed as we prepared for the evening and a new guy jumped off, heading to the command post. Lieutenant Baxter brought him over and introduced him to Jerry Offstettle, the second squad leader. The new guy was Tommy Thompson from Oklahoma. Jerry introduced Thompson to the rest of the squad as well.

 Several of us looked at Thompson and nodded our heads in acknowledgement. A few squad members stood up to shake his hand. It was still business as usual, and we had no time for a new guy. On the second day, we discovered what seemed to be an old North Vietnamese Army prisoner of war holding camp. We found two bamboo cages, each big enough for two men, along with some rope and utensils.

They looked like they had been there for a long time. One cage contained what looked like human bones. Lieutenant Baxter reported it, but we never learned if anyone investigated or if it had housed prisoners. Later, Jack Lanser came over to chat. He was from New York and took pride in it. Lanzer had joined the platoon in October 1968, making him the longest serving member.

He loved sharing stories about his life in New York. He left us with a vague impression that he had two options before coming to Vietnam. Either go to jail or enlist in the United States Army. We were never sure if that was true, as he didn’t seem like the criminal type. Lanzer was an excellent storyteller, and his favorite tale was about a bone.

 He wore a bone around his neck and told every new guy how he got it, where he found it, and why he wore it. He called it his good luck charm. Lanzer claimed to have taken it from the body of an enemy soldier he killed. We could tell by the look in the new guy’s eyes what story Lanzer was telling. We didn’t believe his gruesome tale, but acted like we did while talking with him.

 Most of us thought it was just an animal bone. He carried a large Bowie knife in a sheath on his right hip. He said that the knife had come to Vietnam with a member of the original platoon from Hawaii. Since Lanzer was nearing the end of his tour, he called me over and said, “Haney, I have something for you and handed me the knife.” He explained that the knife was special and passed on to exceptional soldiers.

 I felt honored to receive it and promised to take care of it and pass it to another special soldier. The next day, Lanzer boarded a supply chopper and returned to Duke Fo for a rear job. I passed the Bowie knife to Bill Davenport in December 1969. Bill was a special soldier, and I hoped Lanzer would approve.

 On the third day, a report arrived from our battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Ellis, addressed to the company commanders and platoon leaders. It contained intelligence from the Army of the Republic of Vietnam division. From August 8th to August 15th, intelligence indicated that the Vietkong and North Vietnamese Army troops were likely to infiltrate the district and harass United States and Army of the Republic of Vietnam troops.

 On the fourth day, we stopped by the river for lunch. Minutes later, we heard small arms fire from across the river. We dropped to the ground for cover. Captain Tyson immediately called for artillery on the suspected enemy positions. Seven or eight artillery rounds hit the target. After that, we did not receive any more incoming fire.

 On the fifth day, Lieutenant Baxter informed us about an important upcoming mission. Lieutenant Colonel Ellis assigned our company to a battalion task force. Just before we left for the hill, we welcomed a new replacement for the first squad, Gary Morris, who was from Ohio. Lieutenant Baxter brought him over and introduced him to Joe Mitchell, the first squad leader.

 Joe then introduced Morris to the rest of the first squad. Maurice Harrington climbed into the helicopter that Morris arrived on and headed back to Duke Fo to begin his rest and recuperation. We continued toward the hill. Occasionally, we spotted North Vietnamese Army troops and received small arms fire. We halted while Captain Tyson called in artillery.

 We covered four or five clicks and returned to Hill 411. Outside the firebase, we gathered to prepare for our next mission. On August 12th, the company formed up east and south of Hill 411. After receiving supplies and ammunition, Lieutenant Baxter briefed us on our mission. He said to expect contact with a large North Vietnamese Army force operating in the area.

 Intelligence briefings often exaggerated enemy movements, so we were not too worried. We would be part of a task force that was tasked with sweeping northwest of Kangai city towards the river known as Song Tra. The battalion commander organized the task force with two battalion companies, Alpha Company and Bravo Company along with tanks and armored personnel carriers from each troop of the first cavalry headquartered at Duke Foe.

Charlie Company remained west of the hill while Delta Company stayed on the hill for security. During the day, we organized our gear, checked and cleaned our weapons, and made sure we had enough ammunition. To pass the time, we talked about home. The conversation shifted to familiar topics: cars, girls, school, and jobs.

 Feeling nervous about the upcoming mission, I needed these discussions to distract me from what the next day might hold. As we took a break from preparing for our upcoming mission, I noticed that half the squad was gathered together. I pulled out my camera and took a photo of them. Sitting on the ground from left to right were James Anderson, Danny Kerry, Bill Davenport, and Ray Hamilton, who we called Alabama.

Standing behind them from left to right were Mike Danker, Ronald Owens, and Jerry Offstead. Little did we know, in the next three days, three squad members in that photo would be killed and three would be wounded. James Anderson was 20 years old and hailed from Smith Groves, Kentucky. He had a distinct southern draw.

 He was a newcomer to the squad, being there for only two weeks after joining in July 1969. James married Janice before coming to Vietnam and did not have any children. He was quiet, but always observant. You could tell he tried to learn by watching others. With his positive attitude, he would soon shed the label of being a new guy.

Danny Kerry, also 20, came from Udica, Illinois, and was not married. He had a playful nature and could make anyone laugh. He found the silver lining in every situation, which made him a great fit for our squad. Dany joined us at the end of June 1969, and was part of the team during the construction of the hill.

 Bill Davenport, who was unmarried and from Long View, Washington, had a slightly stocky build for the field. He quickly earned the respect of the squad and platoon. Bill always wore a big smile and had a fantastic sense of humor. It did not take long for us to form a friendship. He became the assistant machine gunner for Alabama and performed his duties admirably.

Ray Hamilton, known as Alabama, was from a small town in Alabama, which inspired his nickname. He also had a southern draw. He joined the platoon in early June 1969 alongside many other replacements. Alabama married Dawn before coming to Vietnam and had no children. He was quiet but engaged in conversation and was a valued member of the squad.

 He had a gentle grin and talking to him felt comfortable. A devoted man, Alabama read his Bible every day and wrote to his wife frequently. He excelled as an M60 machine gunner and was always dependable in protecting the squad. Mike Dankard arrived in Vietnam in March 1969, but did not reach the platoon until early May 1969.

In April, he was on emergency leave. Mike and I quickly connected, and our bond grew into a friendship. He took on responsibilities without hesitation and was becoming a leader. Mike guided and looked after the newer members. Most of the squad admired him. He had a serious side, but would relax when the moment called for it.

He could be quite stubborn. Ronald Owens served as a sergeant in the National Guard and had previously worked for the United States Postal Service before being called to active duty. He hailed from Witchah, Kansas, and joined the platoon in early June 1969. He wasn’t very tall, but was stocky with dark hair.

 I’m not sure how old he was, but he was older than many of us. He often stayed with the command group and sometimes led a team in the squad. Ronald enjoyed talking about various topics and we found most of his conversations engaging. Jerry Offsteadall was the squad leader for the second squad and came from Napa, California.

 He joined the platoon in December 1968, making him an experienced member. He married his longtime girlfriend Clare while on rest and relaxation in Tokyo, Japan the month prior. They did not have any children. I saw Jerry as an exceptional leader, fair, and someone I aspired to be like. He always shared his knowledge and experiences to help us get through our year in Vietnam.

The squad members not in the picture that day were Frank Brown, Charlie Deppen, Tommy Thompson, Donald Cameron, and me. Frank Brown was 19 years old and a tall man, standing around 6 feet and weighing about 175 pounds. He was from Grand Rapids, Michigan, and arrived at the platoon in late June 1969. Frank carried the M79 grenade launcher and became skilled at aiming and quickly reloading.

 He was quiet but dependable and friendly with the squad members. They liked and trusted Frank. Charlie Deppen, 21 years old, was from Tampa, Florida. He was reserved and tended to keep to himself. He seemed hesitant to connect with the squad or let them know him. He typically hung out with the other new arrivals from early June, especially Alabama.

 He looked up to Tufts, and his passing affected him deeply. His favorite topic was bridge, which we found unusual, believing it was more suited for older folks. Tommy Thompson, who was 21, was the newest member of the second squad, joining around August 8th, 1969. He came from Bristo, Oklahoma. Tommy married Connie before arriving in Vietnam.

 He did not have any children. He got here after we had built the hill. The squad talked about the hill often, and I could tell Tommy felt left out. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed friendly and eager to learn. Donald Cameron hailed from California. I’m unsure when he got here, possibly in June 1969.

 He held a college degree and was older than most of us at 22 years old. Don had an interest in law enforcement and might have wanted to be a lawyer. He wasn’t shy about sharing his opinions, whether we asked for them or not. Don and I had an odd relationship. We got along just fine, but I don’t think he liked me much. Despite that, I felt like I had his respect.

 In the last 6 months, I grew an inch, but lost more weight. I was regarded as a veteran in the platoon. I felt more confident in my role, walking point, and mentoring the new guys. At first, my youthful appearance led the new guys to think I was too young to help. However, as time passed, I earned their trust. My friendship with Mike became like brotherhood.

 We were always together, and he even tolerated my immature moments. Looking away from my squad, I noticed the first squad getting ready for the mission. Many were chatting, similar to the second squad. I recognized most of the first squad. Having been with them a few months before, I still felt a bond. I spotted familiar faces.

 Joe Mitchell, John Delo, Ryan Okino, Barry Suda, Paul Ponce, Chuck Council, and Gary Morris. Maurice Harrington had left a couple of days earlier for rest and recuperation, so he was absent. Joe Mitchell, the first squad leader, was from Chicago, Illinois. He joined the platoon in November 1968, making him an experienced old-timer.

 Joe and his wife, Barbara, did not have any children. He was always friendly and eager to share his experiences with the squad. We were not close, but he taught me a great deal. John Delo hailed from Mississippi, which is how he earned his nickname. He had a southern draw as well. Mississippi was a big guy standing 6’2 in tall.

 I took an immediate liking to John, and we quickly became friends. I’m sure we looked quite the pair next to each other. Upon his arrival in early June 1969, he took my place as the youngest member of the platoon. He shared stories about his father’s ranch, and he was passionate about riding horses. His easygoing nature made it seem like nothing bothered him.

 Ryan Okino, at 19, was serving in the National Guard. He arrived in Vietnam for a six-month tour and came from Hilo, Hawaii. Standing at 5′ 6 in tall with dark hair, he was finally someone shorter than I was. Ryan loved to joke and was friendly. He easily joined in conversations. He joined our platoon in early June 1969. He was in the bunker the night the enemy killed Ramos and Reynolds, and he assisted Dusty.

 Since that night, there was more sadness in his eyes, and he seemed quieter. I was impressed by how he handled the M60 despite his small size. Barry Suda, also a National Guardsman from Honolulu, Hawaii, was on a six-month tour like Ryan. He was friendly but kept to himself, always looking serious. Barry arrived at our platoon in early June 1969.

 Though he spoke little, it was clear he was always attentive. Everyone appreciated Barry. He was a reliable soldier and an asset during tough moments. Paul Pon came from Santa Clara, California, and he joined the platoon in November 1968. He and his wife Wanita had no children at that time. I learned later that Paul had a son conceived during his time on rest and relaxation.

Paul was always friendly and chatty, willing to help anyone in need. After returning from Hawaii, where he visited his wife, he was happy to be back with the squad. As I looked at Paul, I raised my peace sign and gave it a rub for him. Chuck Council, at 23, was older than most of us from Portland, Oregon.

 His age earned him the nickname Pops. He joined our platoon in April 1969. Although we were never in the same squad, Chuck and I formed a friendship. He had been to college and I looked up to him for his good advice and ability to listen. He was vocal about his feelings regarding the war. Often frustrated with America, the army, and anyone involved in sending us to fight, I understood his anger.

 Despite that, he had a smile and a twinkle of happiness in his eyes when around the platoon. Chuck carried the M79 for the first squad. Gary Morris was the newest member, often referred to as the FNG of the first squad and platoon, joining around August 11th, 1969. I didn’t know Gary well, but he seemed likable and was fitting in well with the first squad.

 He was from Lancaster, Ohio. Maurice Harrington hailed from North Carolina. He joined the platoon in November 1968, which made him one of the veterans. Maurice was quick to share a smile and a joke. I found him entertaining and friendly. He offered a great distraction from our surroundings. On the serious side, he had the ability to lead the team or squad.

 Unbeknownst to him, he was fortunate to take leave that week. I then noticed the platoon command group preparing for the mission. The platoon leader, Lieutenant Baxter, and the platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Swindle, were both studying a map. The two radio telephone operators, John Meyer and Rebel, were busy changing the batteries in their radios.

 Lieutenant John Baxter, came from Gainesville, Florida. He had a college degree and had served in the Peace Corps before joining the Army. He arrived in Vietnam in March 1969 and joined our platoon in early April. As the first platoon leader, Lieutenant Baxter was somewhat distant yet approachable. He listened to the concerns of the platoon members.

 He proved to be an effective leader who earned our respect. We would follow him anywhere. Staff Sergeant Robert Swindle from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, was married to Selsa and had a son. As a career soldier, he joined our platoon in June 1969 and took on the role of platoon sergeant. He had been assigned to Vietnam in February 1969, but I wasn’t sure of his first role.

 I didn’t know him personally, but I respected him as our platoon sergeant. He was also somewhat aloof and kept a professional distance from the rest of the platoon. Rebel, whose real name was Richard Wellman, was from Gastonia, North Carolina. He had a southern draw, earning him his nickname. At 20, he married his wife Deborah before coming to Vietnam.

 He joined the platoon in March 1969. Rebel was quiet, but open to conversation if you initiated it. He proved himself during his first six months and later became the platoon sergeant radio telephone operator after Terry Darren transferred to a different position. John Meyer was also 20 and hailed from Wisconsin. He joined the platoon in October 1968.

Known for being talkative and playful, Jon often received care packages from home. They usually included his favorite treat, Kor’s beer. Jon had a passion for music and kept up with the latest artists and songs. He attempted to sing along, but his singing wasn’t the best. In his first six months in the second squad, he showed his capabilities and took over as the platoon leader radio operator after Leslie Presley went to a rear job.

John had a lucky streak. He never sustained an injury. We stored our gear and prepared dinner. I enjoyed my usual meal of beef with spice sauce, peanut butter and crackers, pears, pound cake, and hot chocolate. I took a Coke from my rucks sack for later during guard duty and dug a shallow hole to cool it for my early morning shift.

 As the sun set, I lit my last cigarette of the day. Mike and I discussed our mission, believing we would perform well given the size of the task force. After finishing my cigarette, we called it a night, wrapped in our poncho liners, and fell asleep amid tanks and armored personnel carriers. The task force looked impressive, consisting of tanks and armored personnel carriers from E Troop 111 Cavalry along with two infantry companies, Alpha and Bravo from our battalion.

 Staff Sergeant Swindle advised us to pack light, so we loaded our rucks sacks onto a designated armored personnel carrier for our platoon. For this mission, we carried just our weapons, ammunition, grenades, water, one meal, and first aid supplies. Captain Tyson assigned First Platoon as the point platoon for the task force’s right flank security.

 Lieutenant Baxter directed second squad to take point within the platoon. Jerry asked me to lead the way. As we set out at 700 hours, Lieutenant Baxter instructed me to move east toward the river. We navigated through rice patties and meadows surrounded by vegetation. The metallic clanging of the armored personnel carriers was unusual since we usually aimed for silence while moving as a platoon.

 I heard gunfire and then gunship zoomed overhead to engage the enemy. I suspected that other platoon or companies had contacted the North Vietnamese army. Bravo Company held the center of the task force positioned in front of most of the armored personnel carriers and tanks. Alpha Company flanked the sides of the armored column as it advanced east and first platoon sat on the right flank with several armored personnel carriers positioned between the two squads.

 Second squad extended furthest on the right flank. I walked point while Mike was the last man in the formation. Sergeant Swindle, his radio technician Rebel, squad leader Jerry Offstead, machine gunner Alabama, assistant gunner Bill Davenport, and soldiers Don Cameron, Danny Kerry, Frank Brown, Charles Deppen, Tommy Thompson, and James Anderson were between Mike and me.

Our section of the column moved in a staggered formation, keeping 10 ft of space between each member, with me leading the way. At 1200 hours, we moved through dense vegetation that alternated with open areas. To my right was a thick cluster of small trees, bamboo, and undergrowth.

 A trench over 7 ft deep and 8 ft wide ran parallel to our path, separating us from the tree line. Walking 20 m ahead of Cameron and the squad, I approached an opening on the right across the trench about 30 m away. I noticed what looked like a bunker. I informed Cameron that a bunker was ahead, that I would check it out, and that the platoon should halt.

 I crossed the hedge row and entered the opening. I ran down the trench and climbed up the other side. As I reached the top, I paused just a foot away. I noticed a head poking up from the bunker. He saw me at the same moment. I recognized him as a North Vietnamese Army soldier by his uniform.

 In that moment, I shouted, “Lie die, motherfucker.” Which translates to, “Come here now. I called back to Cameron, “Gooks are ahead. Move the platoon back.” The soldier vanished. He dashed out of the bunker and across an open field away from me. I took a kneeling position and fired several three round bursts at him. He fell, but quickly got back up and stumbled into the treeine.

 I fired more rounds, but lost sight of him in the thick vegetation. As I watched him struggle into the trees, chaos erupted. Automatic weapons were firing and explosions rang out from the squad position about 30 m to my right rear. I could identify the sounds of M16 and AK-47 weapons firing. I stayed put, unable to see through the dense hedger row that separated me from the squad.

 Before long, two North Vietnamese soldiers broke through the treeine 20 meters to my right front. They were moving away from the gunfire. I leveled my M16 as the soldier on the left made eye contact with me. I fired three to four rounds, striking him in the chest and head. He staggered backward and fell. The second soldier, startled, stopped running.

 I don’t think he saw me coming. He looked confused or maybe even scared. I felt the same way. I aimed my weapon and fired quickly, hitting him in the chest. He collapsed next to his comrade. I needed to reload. I pushed the button to drop the spent magazine. It fell to the ground. I reached into my bandelier around my waist and pulled out a new magazine.

 I inserted it, pulled back the charging handle, and let it go to load a bullet into the chamber. Bullets whizzed past my head and body and dirt flew up on my left. The gunfire came from behind me. I thought Cameron was shooting. I turned and shouted, “Cameron, quit firing.” But I didn’t see him in the trench.

Looking down, I spotted a North Vietnamese Army soldier in a spider hole about 30 feet away. His head and AK-47 were sticking out. His eyes were wide and sweat covered his face. He looked shocked that I was still alive. Many thoughts rushed through my head. I was behind the lines and I had to reach my squad.

 My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it. I slid down the trench using my right boot to slow my fall while I fired a full magazine at the enemy soldier. I saw pieces of his skull hit the trench wall behind him as his helmet tumbled to the bottom. I kept firing until he stopped moving. I don’t know why since most of my bullets hit him in the face, but I checked to see if he was dead.

 Afterward, I dropped the empty magazine from my M16. I loaded a new one and chambered around. Looking around, I searched for more enemy soldiers. Fear made it hard to breathe. I needed to get back to my squad. Not seeing any threats and gasping for air, I crawled out of the trench toward my squad. As I approached, the armored personnel carriers were backing away while the enemy fired automatic weapons and rocket propelled grenades.

Mississippi lay flat in the grass about 30 meters away, close to the APCs, facing the enemy. I watched in horror as an armored personnel carrier rolled backward and ran over him. I thought for sure the track had killed him, but once the APC cleared his spot, Mississippi sat up. What a relief.

 Rocket propelled grenades and machine gun fire had struck several APCs. The wounded and dead from the cavalry lay next to a burm surrounded by APCs. One APC was on fire. My memory of that moment is hazy. My adrenaline was at its peak from fear, physical exertion, facing the enemy, and the uncertainty.

 I focused on the enemy and what I needed to do, so I wasn’t aware of what others around me were doing, nor can I recall the exact order of events. As I ran toward the treeine and our squad’s position, I first came across Cameron and three bodies lying a few feet from the trench. Cameron was concealed behind thick trees and brush in a hedger.

 He was facing my direction and turned to watch me approach the squad. I paused and asked Cameron, “Did you check them?” Cameron replied, “No.” I shot him a disapproving look and shouted, “Cover me!” Calling to Alabama and Davenport, who were hidden behind a small burm 20 ft away. Alabama fired his M60 while Davenport fed him belts of ammunition.

 The bullets tore through the dense treeine toward the enemy in front of us. I crawled to where the bodies lay, starting with Rebel, then checking Swindle, and finally Jerry. When I thought I heard Jerry moan, I rolled him into my arms. I yelled at Cameron. Jerry is alive. Don shook his head and said, “No, he must have already known.

” I looked at Jerry and I realized he was dead. I noticed Jerry was lying on two grenades that must have fallen from Rebel as he hit the ground. For some reason, I picked them up and put them in my shirt pocket. All three were dead. The enemy soldiers still fired at us and our squad continued to return fire. I crawled back to our position and moved along the line to check on my squad members and find Mike.

 I spotted Frank Brown lying on his back and crawled over to him. I checked for signs of life. Frank was alive, but barely. The enemy had shot him in the head and right leg, leaving him in shock. I sat Frank up, cradling his head against my chest. I noticed he was biting down hard with blood running from his nose.

 I tried to open his mouth so he wouldn’t bite his tongue. My only thought was to open my mouth to breathe. Panic set in as I felt overwhelmed by Frank’s wounds and blood. I didn’t know what to do. I called for a medic. Mike rushed over and then the medic arrived. They both started working on Brown while enemy fire continued.

Explosions and bullets flew around us. I shot back into the thick brush, unable to see any enemy. Several vehicles moved closer and we used their cover to drag Brown to safety behind them. While Mike and the medic treated Brown, a dustoff helicopter landed and took away two wounded and two killed from Erroop.

 Once they were on board, the helicopter flew off. A second dust off arrived as Mike, two others, and I loaded Frank onto the chopper. He was heavy. The Huey took off, heading to the division hospital at Chui. Meanwhile, our squad provided covering fire for the dust off helicopters. After the dust off with Frank departed, I approached Mike, who asked what had happened.

 I said, “There are enemy soldiers everywhere, and I fired on them.” Mike then realized that the first shots he heard were from me. I added, “I told Cameron to have the squad fall back.” Mike replied, “We didn’t get the message.” The firefight happened so quickly that Cameron may not have had time to inform us.

 We saw Swindle, Jerry, and Rebel lying where they had fallen. Mike noticed the radio next to Rebel. He said, “We need the radio.” I thought, “Oh no, I forgot the radio.” We exchanged glances. Mike said, “I’ll get it.” He yelled to Alabama, “Cover me.” Alabama and the rest of us opened fire to cover Mike as he crawled toward the radio.

 Mike had to move Rebel to reach it. He crawled back with the radio while we continued to provide cover. Once he was safely back, he radioed Lieutenant Baxter about our location and the casualties. We knew we couldn’t retrieve Jerry, Swindle, and Rebel without more firepower. I spotted an armored personnel carrier a short distance away with only the driver and the 50 caliber gunner inside.

 Mike and I dashed to the APC, climbed on, and took command of the two-mounted M60 machine guns, Mike on the left and me on the right. I instructed the driver to move forward so we could provide covering fire. We needed to reach Jerry Swindle and Rebel. The driver hesitated. I explained that we required the armored personnel carrier for covering fire to retrieve our dead and wounded.

 That convinced him to assist us. As the armored personnel carrier moved forward, we heard a loud thud on the front right and the vehicle stopped. I asked, “What happened? Why are we stopping?” The gunner replied, “An RPG hit us, but it didn’t explode.” I yelled to the driver, “Keep moving forward.

” The armored personnel carrier reached the fallen platoon members and positioned itself nearby. We provided covering fire with the mounted M60 machine guns. As the 50 caliber gunner fired, trees fell as if an invisible giant were cutting them down. Mike and I dismounted the vehicle to check on the squad and to help retrieve the three dead.

 I know we got Jerry, Rebel, and Staff Sergeant Swindle, but I cannot recall the details. As soon as Mike and I exited the armored personnel carrier, the driver reversed and headed back to the others. I did not see any North Vietnamese Army soldiers. We only shot back at the bullets coming toward us. The enemy continued firing 51 caliber machine guns, small arms, and RPGs at the platoon.

 I went back to Lieutenant Baxter in the first squad’s position. Mike took charge of our squad to minimize exposure to enemy fire. The first squad was lined up, lying against a C-shaped burm. Lieutenant Baxter was at one end, and Chuck Counsel was at the other. I moved next to Lieutenant Baxter and updated him on the situation, including those killed and wounded.

While talking, I glanced at my shaking hands and noticed two lit cigarettes between my fingers. After I finished briefing Lieutenant Baxter, I looked over at Chuck Council. I saw the concerned look in his eyes. I shook my head and returned to the second squad’s position. Lieutenant Baxter organized the platoon with support from the armored personnel carriers engaging the enemy.

 There were several assaults led by Lieutenant Baxter from 1:30 in the afternoon until after sunset. We still face small arms, machine gun, and RPG fire from the enemy. We had artillery support, but it did not deter them. Eventually, someone called in gunships to fire their mini guns and rockets to destroy enemy positions and force a retreat.

During this time, a dust off helicopter landed, and we loaded Jerry, Swindle, and Rebel. Once aboard, the helicopter took off toward Duck Foe. We unleashed a lot of firepower against the enemy, but they kept pressing and refused to pull back. They were only a few hundred feet away from us, wellprotected and deeply entrenched.

 We received orders to fall back quickly because shadow was coming to assist us and to secure our perimeter. Captain Tyson called in flare ships to light up the battlefield. Daylight was fading and we noticed that the armored personnel carriers had left, retreating back to the hill. The APC that had our rucksacks dropped them in a pile as they departed.

We spent much of the evening trying to reach the rucksacks. They held our supplies of ammunition, water, and food. We navigated through the tall grass, guided only by the moonlight and the flares. At one point, while following the person ahead of me, I sensed someone standing off the trail to my right. I aimed my M16, realizing just in time that it was a woman with a six-year-old girl.

 The woman looked frightened, and I found it odd that they were there in the midst of the battle. I hoped someone had warned others about them being on the trail. I signaled their location to the person behind me. We finally reached the pile of rucks sacks and had to crawl low to grab one. It didn’t matter which one it was.

 We just needed one to return to the platoon. It took us 30 minutes to secure our rucks sacks, including the four belonging to Jerry, Swindle, Rebel, and Brown. While we fetched the rucksacks, we could hear and see minigun ships firing at the enemy from above. When we arrived at our night position, we were exhausted, scared, thirsty, and hungry.

 We set up our defenses, established fields of fire, and organized guard shifts. However, it was too late to set up claymore mines and trip flares. As we lay there in silence, I found and opened a can of chicken noodles. I ate it cold and washed it down with warm water. I wanted a cigarette, but didn’t dare light one.

 Mike and I lay next to each other, awake and alert for the North Vietnamese army. Luckily, they didn’t come. As the sun rose on the horizon, we felt a sense of relief. We gathered around a burm, trading rucks sacks to find our own and prepare breakfast. Someone warned Mississippi to stay still. An unexloded rocket propelled grenade was sticking out of the rucks sack he had picked up the night before. Everyone froze.

 He took a step back from Mississippi. He remained still, waiting for assistance. Sweat collected on his face and dripped to the ground. Someone came over and removed the round. It was a dud and we tossed it aside. Mississippi had enjoyed two fortunate days. While I was warming my hot chocolate, Lieutenant Baxter approached and asked, “Did anyone earn an award for yesterday?” I replied, “Yes, Dankert led the squad.

He eliminated enemy soldiers, helped fend off the attack, and while still under fire, saved Frank Brown’s life. He went out to get the radio to contact you, and later, while experiencing more enemy fire, he assisted Jerry Swindle and Rebel. Lieutenant Baxter acknowledged my response and walked away. After breakfast, I went to one of the extra rucks sacks and grabbed two bandeliers of M16 ammunition.

 This rucks sack belonged to Rebel. I had used 10 to 15 of my rounds and did not recover most of the empty magazines during the fight, leaving them where they fell. Later in the morning, Mike and I set out on a patrol to check the area for any enemy presence. We made the right call, hurrying to where the fight had taken place the previous night.

As we walked, we discovered over 10 dead soldiers from the North Vietnamese Army who had been killed the night before. The mini guns and artillery had ravaged the ground where the battle occurred. Searching their pockets and gear revealed letters and maps that might be useful intelligence. Once we returned to our platoon position, we handed over the materials to Lieutenant Baxter.

 I’m not sure who counted the bodies because we kept moving. It was reported later that among the documents recovered, one from a North Vietnamese Army Company commander to another, mentioned three North Vietnamese Army companies had been at the battle site where it began on the 13th. Lieutenant Baxter received new orders to locate and destroy tunnels.

The platoon headed east toward the river with me leading the way. We walked through what seemed to be an empty village. Yet, I felt the presence of North Vietnamese Army soldiers nearby. Lieutenant Baxter instructed us to hold a kilometer outside the village. We set up security for a landing zone for an incoming supply helicopter.

After 20 minutes, we received word that the helicopter was approaching. So, we used smoke to signal the landing location for the pilot. The supply helicopter arrived and delivered a dog team along with several cases of concussion and fragmentation grenades for our platoon. We placed the four rucksacks and we loaded the weapons belonging to Jerry, Swindle, Rebel, and Brown onto the supply helicopter.

 Our instructions were to take them to the company headquarters. Once we unloaded and placed the rucks sacks and weapons on board, the supply helicopter took off back to the hill. Mike and I equipped ourselves with concussion grenades. We frequently heard the phrase, “Fire in the hole,” followed by an explosion. That day, we destroyed more than 25 tunnels.

 Sometimes a soldier had to enter a tunnel to uncover weapons, food, supplies, or even enemy soldiers. Being small in stature made me the ideal candidate to be a tunnel rat. Throughout my time with the platoon, I had gone into several tunnels. This particular mission was the one I liked the least. After removing my gear, I entered the tunnel with just a pistol and a knife.

Inside, I often discovered signs of life, such as lanterns, prepared meals, books, and sleeping mats. One of the main objectives of a tunnel rat was to locate caches of weapons and ammunition. I was fortunate that I never ran into enemy soldiers. On this occasion, dog teams accompanied us to sniff out the tunnels.

 I felt relieved thinking the handler would send the dog into the tunnel after it found the entrance. But that was not how it worked. I told the handler, “Here’s an entrance. Send in the dog.” The handler responded, “My dog only finds tunnels. It doesn’t go in. That’s the tunnel rat’s job.” I insisted, “We can find the tunnels. Just send the dog in.

” I then dropped a concussion grenade into the tunnel opening and shouted, “Fire in the hole.” I had no care for the handler or the dog. Within two hours, the dog became hot and tired, so they left the field. On this day, we blew up many tunnels as we progressed through the area of operations. Mike and I stumbled upon what looked like a cave entrance near the riverbank.

 I suggested, “Let’s throw our grenades, move on, and find the next one.” Mike sat at the cave entrance and said, “We can’t blow this one.” I asked, “Why not?” He replied, “It could be used for ammo storage.” I countered. Mike, the tunnels we’ve already destroyed might have been used for ammo storage, too. Still, Mike remained seated, insisting, “We can’t blow this one.

” I agreed and sat beside him. He could be quite stubborn. The platoon found a defensible spot and halted. We were exhausted and needed rest, so we established our positions and had our evening meal. The platoon gathered in a circle of tanks and armored personnel carriers. I felt a sense of safety. Every now and then, a tank would start its engine and let it run. The noise was unsettling.

 We worried about revealing our position to the enemy. We asked them to avoid starting the tanks. They explained that the tanks had to be started regularly. I didn’t sleep well at all. This is a letter from Charlie Deppen to his parents dated August 14th, 1969. Dear mom and dad, we have been in the Quangai Valley for a week now.

 Things were somewhat calm until yesterday. That’s when we teamed up with some tanks and armored personnel carriers to sweep through a section of the valley. Just before noon, we made contact and fought until dark. Please do not worry about me. I am perfectly fine. However, I put my rucks sack on the APCs and it has either been lost or destroyed by enemy grenades.

 I lost all my books, letters, possibly taken by the enemy, so please watch for any enemy propaganda in the mail. gear and my bridge booklets and addresses. My checkbook and wallet are gone as well. All my ID cards will need to be replaced along with my glasses. What a mess. Please send me a small address book. Write soon and keep your fingers crossed for me and my buddies.

Love, Charlie. We woke up on August 15th to the smell of diesel and the sound of tank engines running. We began to prepare breakfast. The mood was quiet because of the recent events. The platoon didn’t have a platoon sergeant or squad leader to guide us. Mike and I tried to step up as squad leaders and organize the squad for the day’s mission.

 The squad continued with right flank security for the task force and was the point squad for the platoon and company. The mission was to locate and eliminate the North Vietnamese Army battalion that had been attacking us. I took the lead for the platoon while Mike took the drag position for the squad. Behind me and to the right was the second squad.

Anderson, Thompson, Alabama, Davenport, Danny Kerry, Deppen, Cameron, and Mike. To my left rear was the first squad, Pon Mitchell, who led the first squad, Okino, Suda, Council, Mississippi, and Morris. Lieutenant Baxter, John Meyer, the radio telephone operator, and Ronald Owens were in between both squads, positioned in the center and toward the back.

 The first squad had a tank and several APCs to their left. We moved through the deserted village and went toward the river. I wondered why the villagers had left. We stopped for lunch at this point. Though I wasn’t hungry, I had some fruit and crackers with cheese and drank a whole quart of Kool-Aid. The squad remained quiet and alert, focused on our surroundings. At 1:30 p.m.

, we received the order to move out. Lieutenant Baxter instructed me to head west away from the river before we turned and moved north. By 400 p.m. I was making my way in a north bynortheast direction across the rice patties toward the river. Behind me, the platoon walked in a staggered column with 10 to 15 ft between each person.

 I jumped from one patty to another, always on the lookout for booby traps and signs of enemy activity. As we advanced, I had a hedge to my left, a smaller one to my right rear, and a larger hedger about 100 meters ahead. A vacant field stretched between me and the hedger row. When I reached the middle of the field, I slowed down.

 My gut twisted and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Every nerve in my body screamed, “Danger!” I sensed enemy eyes watching us and I could swear I smelled the North Vietnamese army. I turned and shouted, “Spread out!” I gestured for the platoon to scatter as I yelled the command. Turning back to the front, a shock wave hit me with brutal force.

 It sent me backward 30 ft through the air, ripping my weapon and gear away. As I flew through the air, the sky filled with black smoke and dirt, and then I crashed to the ground hard. A 250lb Command detonated bomb had detonated. The next thing I remembered was sitting in a tunnel that overlooked the battlefield.

 The air felt cool and the light was dim. I could hear muffled voices at the other end of the tunnel, but none of them sounded familiar. Sitting there, I felt peaceful and comfortable. I wanted to stay there and not go back. Looking down, I saw my platoon members. I heard their moans and cries with someone calling for his mother.

 There were mangled bodies everywhere. I watched Ronald Owens turn my body over, searching for wounds. Mike shouted, “Glenn!” I gasped for air as Ronald Owens performed chest compressions. I felt lost, unsure of what had just happened. Owens had saved my life. Or was it Mike? Owens helped me off the field and placed me in an armored personnel carrier with other wounded members of the platoon.

 Deppen sat nearby with a blank stare, a large piece of shrapnel sticking out of his right knee. Okino lay on a stretcher, bloodied and with his legs mangled. He was moaning and in shock. Thompson, between cries of pain from a gaping wound in his side, looked on in distress. I was stunned as I looked around the track.

 Blood soaked bandages, pools of blood, and pieces of flesh were everywhere. I felt nauseous, so I stepped out of the armored personnel carrier and made my way to a small burm by the hedge. I sat on the ground and cried. As I sobbed like a child, Lieutenant Baxter approached me. He spoke in a soothing voice, telling me the platoon needed me.

 His calming words helped me begin to regain my composure. I noticed a member of the first squad still lying in the rice patty. It was Paul Ponce, face down and unmoving. I found Chuck Counsel, or perhaps Chuck found me, and together we went to help Paul. We turned him over and I realized he was dead.

 A large pool of blood lay beneath him. Tears streamed down my face. Without a weapon, I picked up Paul’s M16 from beneath his body. I slung it across my shoulder to keep my hands free. Chuck stood there staring at Paul. I nudged him and said we needed to move. We lifted Paul’s body with me grasping his legs and Chuck supporting his upper body.

 As we carried him back to the armored personnel carrier, I watched blood drip from his wounds, leaving a trail behind us. We set Paul down next to Anderson and Carrie, covering him with a poncho. I left Chuck with Paul. Then I moved along the hedge to another injured soldier. I saw two soldiers putting the wounded man onto a stretcher.

 They lifted him at opposite ends and walked toward me. As they passed by, I recognized the wounded soldier. It was Joe Mitchell. I walked beside the stretcher trying to comfort Joe who looked at me with wide open eyes and a smile. As we moved, Joe’s M16 fell off his chest and hit the ground. The bearer stopped and I picked it up and placed it back on him.

 We continued walking and I held his hand for comfort. Soon I realized Joe was not looking at me or listening to my words. He was dead. My eyes filled with tears. They brought Joe back to the armored personnel carrier and laid him next to Paul Ponce. The soldiers who carried him covered Joe with a poncho. As Mike and I leaned against the armored personnel carrier, we passed a canteen back and forth in silence.

 Chuck stood beside us, his expression vacant. In front lay four bodies, each covered by a poncho. We were waiting for the helicopter to evacuate the wounded when I saw Chuck rush toward the bodies. He pulled back the poncho from Paul, his best friend. Chuck fell to his knees and cried. Mike and I went to him, covered Paul again, and helped Chuck away.

 We heard the helicopter approaching the landing zone and provided covering fire. As the Huey landed, we first loaded Charlie Deppen, Ryan Okino, and Tommy Thompson onto the helicopter. Lieutenant Baxter directed platoon members to put Alabama and Bill Davenport on the helicopter. I helped Mike get on as well.

 Lieutenant Baxter told me to join them, but I said I would stay until we had replacements. Once the wounded were loaded, the pilot took off. The pilots who do these evacuations are incredibly brave. As the helicopter flew away, I looked around. Only 11 platoon members remained from the 28 we had started with back in July.

 Those who were wounded but later returned included Mike Dankert, Alabama, and Bill Davenport. Minutes later, the last helicopter landed to take the dead. After loading them into the waiting helicopter, we stood and watched Joe Mitchell, Paul Ponce, James Anderson, and Danny Kerry leave for the final time. Don Cameron approached and said, “Haney, thank you for staying.” I replied, “Thanks.

 We need to stay together and protect the squad and platoon as best as we can.” Cameron’s words surprised me since I thought he didn’t like me much. I woke up early and sat by my gear, having a cigarette and reflecting on the last couple of days. I wondered how Mike was doing. I had not slept well, and I kept saying the names of everyone in the platoon who had died since I arrived.

Tufts, Ramos, Reynolds, Jerry, Swindle, Wellman, Pon, Mitchell, Anderson, and Carrie. It felt important to remember them. Sometimes a squad member would wake me up because I recited the names aloud in my sleep, and they worried it might attract the enemy. Lieutenant Baxter stopped by and asked, “Haney, how are you doing?” I answered, “I am okay, sir.

” After he left, I thought about the actions we had faced over the last 3 days. I tried to understand why this experience felt different from any earlier encounters. The action on the 13th was intimate and intense. The enemy was so close that I will never forget their faces or the bullets I fired. The enemy targeted us from much closer distance.

 They fought longer and harder than in any previous battle. Earlier, we mostly engaged at a distance. We fired hundreds to thousands of rounds at them, and they responded in kind before retreating. Sometimes snipers or small units engaged us briefly and then escaped. Other times, sappers crept up on us, launching explosive attacks while using the darkness for cover.

 Nothing compared to the intensity of the last three days. It’s hard to understand or explain. I kept thinking about whether I could have spotted the ambushes sooner. As the point man, it was my duty to alert the platoon of any danger. I was out front to keep them safe. On the 13th, what if I hadn’t crossed the trench to confront the enemy? What if I had stayed back to warn the platoon? Would the enemy have let us pass without firing? If they had attacked, would we have been ready for their strength and firepower? Did my decision to fire first lead to the

deaths of Jerry, Swindle, and Rebel? On the 15th, I wondered if a different path might have changed things. Why didn’t I shout hit the ground instead of spread out? If we had hit the ground, could Mitchell, Ponce, Anderson, and Carrie have survived? Would the platoon have trusted me to lead again? Did they hold me responsible? I replayed the events of the 13th and 15th in my mind for years.

I longed for a different outcome. I looked down at my shirt. The left side bore blood stains. It could have been from Brown when I held his head or Jerry’s when I lifted him. My M16 came into sight, and I noticed blood on it, too. I took out my canteen and an undershirt, scrubbing hard to get rid of the stains.

 I felt the two grenades I had found by Jerry in my pocket. They were also stained, as was the inside of my pocket. I broke down and cried. I realized I hadn’t given myself time to grieve for Jerry, Rebel, Swindle, and Frank until now. Once I got myself together, I picked up the two grenades, my entrenching tool, and two cans of fruit.

 I then moved to the edge of the perimeter. Chuck Counsel was on guard. We exchanged nods as we made eye contact. I found a decent spot to the right of a path and dug a hole that was 18 in deep. I placed the grenades in the hole with the handles up and the pins facing the side. Then I packed dirt around them and put a can of fruit on each grenade to weigh down the handles.

Carefully, I pulled the pin from each grenade and finished covering them with dirt, leaving a noticeable mound. I told Jerry, Rebel, Frank, and Swindle that they would soon get even. After returning to my spot, I pulled out my soap and water. I washed the blood off my hands and tried to scrub the blood out of my uniform.

 I still had to wear that uniform for another four days. From then on, I carried Pon’s M16 throughout my time in the field. This day marked when I lost my faith in God. Many soldiers find God in combat, but I could not hold on to that belief. I was a Methodist. I grew up attending church and considered myself a Christian.

 The death and suffering I had witnessed over the last few months made me believe there was no merciful deity watching over us. How could there be when so many young men, those who were sons, fathers, and husbands, had died or been wounded? If God exists, I hated him. I felt no regret for taking a life.

 It was kill or be killed. Mike had said earlier that it wasn’t personal. Now it felt very personal. I could think only of killing enemy soldiers. I realized that only Mike and the rest of first platoon were keeping me safe. If I called out, no one else would respond, but Mike would. I wished Mike was there. The blast had shaken him.

 Hopefully, he didn’t suffer a serious injury and would return soon. Later, I learned about a festival named Woodstock, promoted as three days of peace and music. It started on August 15th while we were loading helicopters with the dead and wounded. I felt bitterness thinking that some of those people were probably draft dodgers who didn’t care about us.

 They danced, sang, and partied while my friends were getting killed or wounded, and I was stuck in the jungles of Vietnam. I thought it would be great if they came to Vietnam. our platoon size wouldn’t be half of the allowed strength. Some genuinely protested the war in Vietnam, but my instincts told me most did not care.

 They protested the war because they did not want to go to Vietnam as individuals. They were not concerned about the politics of the war. There is a big difference there. They wanted peace but did not want to serve. More than 400,000 people attended Woodstock. What if 400,000 young people came together to support us? During the next three days, two helicopters were shot down.

 One tank ran over a 250lb bomb booby trap. Mike Alabama and Bill Davenport were back with the platoon. On August 20th, Lieutenant Baxter told me to get on the resupply chopper to return to Bronco. I still felt nauseous and dizzy. I also had severe headaches, blurred vision, and ringing in my ears. When we landed, I checked in with the first sergeant.

 He dispatched a jeep to take me to the hospital. The driver dropped me off at the entrance and left. I entered the hospital and stood at the entrance feeling confused about where to go. A medic noticed me and asked, “Do you need help?” I replied, “I was near an explosion several days ago, and I’m still feeling sick and unstable.

” He said, “Follow me.” I followed the medic to his desk and sat in a chair facing him. He asked, “What is your unit?” I told him, “Alpha company, third of the first.” The medic found my medical records from a file drawer. He asked, “What happened? Give me details.” I stated, “I was near an explosion and my heart and breathing stopped.

” Owens gave me CPR. I was unconscious for a while. I am still nauseous, have severe headaches, blurred vision, and ringing in both ears. He recorded that information, took my vitals, and sent me into an open room with a bed. 5 minutes later, a doctor came in, and we had the same conversation. I imagine it was difficult for the medics and doctors because I had no penetrating wound to treat.

 A mild brain injury was not recognized in triage in Vietnam. It wasn’t considered a traumatic brain injury without a penetrating wound. The doctor told me they did not have the diagnostic equipment needed. He sent me to the division hospital at Chuli. A truck took five of us and several medics to the airfield to board the next flight to Chuli.

 I felt embarrassed because the others were in much worse condition than I was. Once we landed, a bus took me along with the other wounded and medics to the hospital. After we arrived, a doctor treated me and kept me overnight for observation. He told me I had a concussion, vertigo, and tinidis because of being near the explosion on August 15th.

 No special tests were performed. Years later, doctors diagnosed me with a traumatic brain injury due to that explosion. The next morning, they sent me back to Bronco. I stayed at company headquarters for several days to rest in bed. I had no duties during that time. I was eager to return to my platoon, which I did on the morning of August 24th.

This is from a letter Lieutenant John Baxter wrote to his parents on August 21st, 1969. He mentioned, “We have two days until our standown, and we are ready for it. The platoon is worn out after 14 tough days in the field. I should get a few breaks, too. The standown is from August 24th to 27.

 After that, I will be the pay officer for a week. From September 9 to 16, I expect to have incountry leave somewhere. My date to get out of the field is still uncertain. Maybe late September or October. I plan to look for a job in July. Rumors about withdrawal and the deactivation of the 11th Light Infantry Brigade are swirling along with talk of a lull in the war.

 However, enemy pressure persists. They conduct harassing operations with the sole aim of injuring or killing American soldiers. The Vietkong fire six to eight rounds hoping to hit someone. Then they flee because they know artillery barges will follow. In the many attacks I’ve seen, only once has someone been hurt. Replacements are still arriving.

 I am now the second most senior platoon leader in the battalion, so it shouldn’t be too long before I leave. Tomorrow is the last day of the standown, and I am in charge of the awards ceremony. However, not many company awards have been approved yet. I have nominated two of my specialist four soldiers for silver stars, but I won’t be around when they are awarded.

 There’s not much else to say from this point of view. Life becomes routine and conversations feel trivial to anyone except us in the field. On August 24th, the company returned to the hill. Later that morning, the platoon boarded a Chinook helicopter and flew to Chulai for standown. After we landed, the rear door opened.

 We exited the helicopter and headed to the containers for our weapons and ammunition. It felt odd to turn in my weapon, ammunition, grenades, and claymore mines for the next three days. I felt vulnerable, but kept my knife. We moved into a building with a large room that had bunk beds and lockers. We each chose our bunks and a locker to store our gear.

 Mike picked the lower bunk while I took the upper one. We sat on his bunk and talked about going to the hospital and our return to the platoon. We never discussed what happened during those three days. The mood was serious and everyone in the platoon was quiet. I recall no one bringing up those days. If someone did, they would ask, “Do you remember the 13th or do you remember the 15th?” We all knew what they meant, no matter what month it was.

 That was the extent of our conversation. I wasn’t in a festive mood during this break. I stayed on my bunk reading and sleeping and drank too much Jim Beam mixed with coke. I found a couple of western paperback books and tucked them under my pillow for reading. I only left my bunk to eat and to listen to a band one evening.

 I even skipped the ongoing poker games and the enlisted club during this downtime. The three days flew by and before we knew it, we gathered our weapons and gear and boarded the helicopters. We flew back to the hill. Once we landed and climbed out of the helicopter, Lieutenant Baxter called the platoon over to him.

 He informed us we would stay on the hill for the day to receive training. He mentioned we would rotate through three training stations, squad fire and maneuver, first aid, and calling in artillery. This announcement caught us off guard since we had never received formal training before. I thought this training came too late after the recent weeks.

 As the two squads broke off for the training stations, Lieutenant Baxter instructed, “Dankert and Haney, stay here.” Mike and I exchanged glances, unsure if we were in trouble. He approached us and said, “I have something for you two.” He reached into his shirt pocket and took out sergeant pins. He declared, “Dankert and Haney, you are promoted to acting sergeant.” Then he handed us the pins.

Lieutenant Baxter shook our hands and said, “Welldeserved.” We thanked him for his trust in us and we quickly pinned on our stripes. We both felt proud of the promotion, especially knowing Lieutenant Baxter recognized our efforts. In the middle of August, Mike and I received a promotion to specialist fourth class.

 However, we never wore that rank. An acting sergeant had the authority and responsibility of the rank, but did not receive the pay. Our official promotion to sergeant would come in mid November. Our squad members noticed the sergeant stripes on our collars. We were teased in good spirits for the rest of the afternoon.

 They were genuinely happy for us. We found the first aid training valuable and wished we had received it weeks earlier. They taught us how to manage a casualty from an explosion like what happened to me. Sergeant Owens demonstrated the proper actions. Calling in artillery was both challenging and enjoyable.

 We used our map reading and radio skills, and it was not too difficult. The fire and maneuver training lacked realism, so we teased the poor sergeant who was instructing that part of the training. After finishing the training and enjoying a hot meal at the Messaul, the platoon got ready to leave the hill. We patrolled the area around the horseshoe before moving to the mountains due to the monsoon season.

One evening as we wrapped up dinner, Lieutenant Baxter called most of the platoon over. He expressed his gratitude for our presence and shared that he received two letters from Dusty Roads. He opened the first letter and read it aloud to everyone gathered. Then he opened the second letter and read it as well.

 Dusty mentioned he was in the United States and doing well, and the platoon felt relief knowing he was healing. We rarely heard from or knew the status of our injured platoon members. At the end of the second letter, Dusty inquired about Joe Mitchell, Paul Ponce, and Ryan Okino. He wanted to know how they were doing and asked for a response.

 The sadness washed over our platoon members. Lieutenant Baxter asked who wanted to write back to Dusty and offered to provide his address. No one spoke up. I didn’t want to tell Dusty what happened on August 13 and 15. Mike felt the same way. I hoped if Dusty remained unaware, he might heal more quickly and move on with his life, believing they were still alive.

 As far as I know, no one wrote Dusty. Before the 3-day standown, our platoon had received replacements and even more after we returned to the field. By late August and early September, many new people joined us to replace those lost or injured on August 13 and 15. As always, most were 20-year-old drafties from various parts of the United States.

 Battalion directed many replacements from Bravo Company. The replacements I recall include Donald Ays, Alan Buff, Cliff Sevage, James Thornton, Terry Williams, David Kingsbury, John Ki, Manuel Stra, Archie Oliver, Michael Hardman, David Abernathy, and Wilbert Tberry.