June, 1969 was a time of horrific combat action for us, the men of Alpha Company. Our C.O., Captain David Walsh, was leading us as part of a battalion-sized operation against the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) in Quang Ngai Province, northern South Vietnam. (Alpha Company was part of the 1st Battalion, 20th Regiment, in the 11th Light Infantry Brigade, part of the Americal Division).
We’d been in a number of fire-fights during the first days of June. We were on the move, and the enemy knew we were in the area. By the afternoon of the ninth, we had been cut up pretty badly. We had lost a number of men, including all of our medics except one; even he had been wounded in the arm, but refused to be taken out on a med-evac helicopter. He stayed with us and walked with us through the pitch-black darkness for most of the night, supported by two men walking on either side. We were hoping to avoid contact, if possible. We needed to rest, regroup, and resupply, if we were to be effective in any kind of operation. We were exhausted and discouraged. No one was telling even bad jokes about our situation.
There was no moon, and it was impossible to see: we moved in single-file, one arm extended to hold on to the man in front so as not to get lost. We still managed to fall into an occasional muddy hole, (including yours truly). Late that night we finally stopped, setting up perimeter around a hill, trying to sleep sitting up, hoping to be ready for anything. When it was my turn to pull guard, I crept into place a few yards from where I had been trying to sleep. It was still pitch-black. We had no starlight scope. My gut was tight. I remember holding my breath occasionally, trying to hear better, fearful that even my breathing would give me away. That night’s foreboding was hard to shake off. There was deep shit out there, waiting for us—somewhere.
I don’t know what happened after I got off guard. The rest of the night just disappeared, and there was light. My eyes felt so swollen and I felt like I had a hangover—so I must’ve slept. Some of the guys were already preparing to move out. I looked at my M -16: it seemed fine, and I debated about trying to clean it at the last minute. I broke it open anyway, which I’m sure was a God-thing: the chamber inside was packed with mud from the hole I had fallen into the night before… visions of my 16 blowing up in my face started dancing in my head….
We packed up and moved out, seeming to walk forever, until mid-morning. We saw no enemy.
Max Sullivan, the chaplain, had joined us at some point. He had been with us on other occasions, holding services and giving out communion to the men. It was always encouraging to see him, and to hear his ever-friendly voice.
Once we stopped, on the morning of June 10th, we established a perimeter. We were in a dry rice-growing area, dikes surrounded by hedgerows everywhere. You couldn’t see very far—perhaps twenty meters.
The mortar platoon took up one side of the perimeter. I planted myself between a dike and a grain storage “hootch,” a mudded brown half-sphere, rising up out of the field about six feet high. I had been standing there for a few minutes when it occurred to me that I was seeing a face looking back at me from the bush about 40-50 meters away. We just stood looking at one another, neither of us moving. (I remember having this stupid impulse to wave or call out to the other—but that thought was gone in a second). I told my sergeant, Gary Owens, and he said we had to go and check it out….sick…about four of us went out: perhaps 25 meters of the distance to the spot was open, with no cover.
We got out there to find—nothing. So we started back. We got about 10 meters when all kinds of small arms fire cut loose on the other side of the perimeter—AK 47s, M-16s, M-60 machine guns….I don’t know what all. It was hot and heavy, with rounds coming our way. (I later learned that the initial burst of gunfire occurred when Sgt. Gene Holland walked through a hedgerow into an NVA machine gun. He got six rounds in the gut and frags from a Chi-Com grenade). We got in the dirt, but realized we had to get back to the others no matter what, and the Sarge said to boogie. It took forever, but we all made it back….just in time to get pinned down by AKs and a 30-caliber machine gun. I was crouching in the same spot between the hootch and a dike. The enemy didn’t seem very close, but I wasn’t certain. Just then, James Hopper, who was right behind me, lifted his head above the dike. I don’t know if he was trying to get a shot off, but he took a 30-caliber round in the neck. He couldn’t call out—but I’ll never forget the sounds. He was gone. (Gene Holland recently told me that Hopper had told him he was going to die….a premonition?)
It was strangely quiet right after that. I don’t know whether it was just me or there was an actual lull in the battle. There was a shape moving through the tree line toward us from behind. I fired my 16, and the shape disappeared. The 30-caliber machine gun was no longer firing. In its place the NVA put a 60 mm mortar. Unlike our 81s, the 60s were highly mobile. One man could crouch on the ground and fire it. I heard the call to pull back—we were getting decimated. I wasn’t aware right then, but two others had been badly wounded by the machine gun fire—Royce Lowman, our ace gunner, took it in the jaw. Gene Holland’s belly wounds left everyone thinking he would never make it. It just “happened” (another God thing) that a resupply chopper was taking off just as the firing started. The pilot heard (or saw) it and decided to stick around a little…just in case.
I was kneeling or crouching very close to the ground between the dike and the hootch. I heard a loud whistling sound; then I was suddenly inside a gigantic bell as the gonger clanged—or so it seemed. I was lifted off the ground, being carried to one side and watching the tree line moving past me in slow mo.
I was conscious and tried to sit up, but just couldn’t move. I tried but couldn’t reach my M-16. I remember seeing the sky, and the hootch, and everything was quiet again. I looked at my hands; there was blood spurting out of my left thumb. There was blood all over my legs and stomach, and the clothing was torn up. But I didn’t feel any pain. I just couldn’t seem to move anything but my arms.
There was no one else around—everyone had already pulled back. I knew I had to yell out for help, not knowing whether our guys or bad guys would get to me first. I lay there forever, it seemed, but was probably only a couple three or four minutes. I heard a voice and an American soldier emerged through the bushes and trees and I recognized—Max Sullivan, the chaplain! I don’t remember my exact thoughts on seeing him, but I remember being impressed that here was this minister coming out to get me—the angel of God!
He leaned over me, checked me and asked me how badly I was hit. He looked at poor James Hopper, but he was long gone. Max mentioned that we had to get out of there right away—the NVA were all over the place. Just then, another American—I don’t remember his name, but he was from one of the line platoons—came up. Max picked up my M-16, and began spraying the bushes. I distinctly remember wondering how a minister of God could be firing an M-16! But I didn’t have long to think on that: He and the other man got under my arms and pulled me up onto my good leg. It must have been a strange sight to see the three us with a gimp in the center, maneuvering through and around the dikes, trees, and other things. I was aware of what was happening around me, but didn’t have a clue how the battle was going. I do remember Joe Dietler walking by, looking downcast and close to tears, saying something about how many of our guys were getting shot up. He paused for a moment and then hurried on.
We got to the “dust-off” area, and Max and the other man laid me down on the ground. Max began examining my wounds. I don’t remember his words, but he was encouraging the whole time. I knew I had gotten hit in the belly and the upper legs: he assured me I could still have children.
I showed him my Buck knife, which I carried on my web-belt. I gave it to him, asking for him to pass it on to someone who could use it. He said he’d take care of it.
It seemed to take forever waiting for the chopper, but probably not more than a half-hour, if that. Max was not with me the whole time, but he came back to help load me and others on the chopper when it landed. I remember watching the pilot looking around to make sure we were all in and ready for take-off. I lay there for a moment with my left hand up. The thumb was bleeding profusely where a piece of shrapnel was sticking out close to the nail. Then the pilot looked down at me, and I gave him a thumbs-up with probably the biggest smile I ever felt. Then we were airborne.
I’ve thought a lot about Max since that day in June of ‘69 when much of our world fell apart. At one point, I couldn’t remember his exact name, but I’ll never forget what he did. He put his life on the line for me—there was no way he could even see me or what else might be in the area. I heard years later that he did a lot of that sort of thing. On that same day, our beloved Captain, David Walsh, was killed. Capt. Walsh was deeply loved and admired by the men of Alpha Company. He was a man’s man and a leader of men, and he cared for us deeply—he refused to put our lives at risk unless absolutely necessary. There was no confusion about that, at least, during our time in that confusing war. And he put his men before his own life. On the day he died, he rushed in more than once and killed NVA snipers, charging in the face of small arms fire. He was finally picked off by another sniper, and lay in a field alone, clutching his rifle, for a long time before our men were able to retrieve his body. Max Sullivan, I believe, was one of those men. Max remembers firing Capt. Walsh’s M-16 (although he didn’t remember firing mine).
Max, as a man, was greatly respected for the days he spent with our unit. He laid it all on the line for the soldiers he came to serve with more than religious words. As a minister, he lived out the words of Jesus, who said, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” (John 15:13)
And we thank him for it.
No comments:
Post a Comment