Alpha II

Alpha II, was the most-northern allied outpost in all of South Vietnam. The sea was incredibly blue, and the sun always shining but for the monsoon seasons, unpredictable typhoons, hurricanes, and tropical storms. 

 On a clear day flying in plain sight was a very large North Vietnamese flag.

Thirteen kilometers to the south, near the Cua Viet River, was a large post, the 'home base' camp of the U.S. Marine 'Northern I Corps' units. Just southeast was a large U.S. Army base at Quang Tri.

None of Alpha II's U.S. troops liked to be recalled (travel to the 'rear') even when it was necessary. To do so meant polishing their worn 'jungle boots' and shining their brass buckles, which, when 'on the hill', made a good target for the occasional, errant snipers.

This is a story of Alpha II Hill 46 or better known by the name of the little hamlet two kilometers to the south - Gio Linh. Just a 'hump on the road,' it was half surrounded by rice paddies, half by small bushes that were trying desperately to sprout up before the next airborne application of Agent Orange poured down upon the area.

This Allied post was a small hill just at the 'NATO allowable' edge of the demilitarized zone, one and a half 'clicks' (1500 meters) south of the Ben Hai River and about 7 'clicks' west of the South China Sea. 

It was manned by a reinforced company of ARVN's (Army of the Republic of South Vietnam). Permanent American forces at the time consisted of about 16 soldiers, 10 Marines, and a lone U.S. Navy Corpsman (medic to some).

There was never an airstrip, Heli-pad, or mess hall on Alpha II. Unless some large U.S. artillery unit came up from the south for a special operation, everyone was restricted to the compound and the same 12 meal cartons of processed food commonly known as 'C' rations. Some boxes were marked as early as 1948.

All slept in cramped, twelve-man 'bunkers' which were of wooden construction and barely above the ground level. The timber frames were sturdy, and the outer walls and roof were surrounded by layers of sandbags. A small 'parapet' on the top barely protected two 'duty watch' when conditions called for it.

There were three old, concrete bunkers built in the mid-1950s by the French army long before their surprising defeat at Dien Ben Phu near the Chinese border way to the northwest. Two of these concrete fortifications can be found today.

 There was rumored to believe that a couple of U.S. officers, 'ARVN advisors', were stationed at Alpha II. If true, they never showed their heads (or chevrons) above the surface. No officer would, as snipers were a constant menace.

The base was part of then-Senator McNamara's "electronic wall." The mission(s) of the American personnel were to detect incoming artillery, troop movements, or any other infiltrations from the north. Besides their M-16's, the Americans had but a few 'LAW's (light anti-tank weapons) and grenades to defend themselves. The actual base security was the responsibility of the ARVN soldiers.

In 1968, there were three groups of U.S. personnel. The U.S. Army manned an AN/MPQ-44 and the Marines; an older version called an AN/MPQ-10. Both were Doppler-style radar sets designed to 'search the skies' in hopes of detecting (and 'tracing back') incoming mortar or artillery rounds anywhere within range. 

Another Army group was called the 'Sound Rangers,' their team set out microphones surrounding this base, intended to 'hear' any unapproved singular or group movements. 

Much later in 1969, was added an AN/TPQ-25 manned by just a couple of Marines and supported by the AN/MPQ-10 force - just before the entire base was evacuated by the U.S. and subsequently overrun in the last, massive battle of the 'Northern I Corps.'

At Gio Linh, although being on this very exposed hill, there were times when they felt safe and well 'backed up' by the mass of big artillery at Dong Ha, to the west at Camp Carrol and other locations. Still, they were hammered by unpredictable mortar, artillery, and occasional rocket fire. Just when they felt safe - they were not.

On the sandy, north shore of the Ben Hai River were a couple of North Vietnamese soldiers assigned to keep their flag flying. They were well dug-in to the rapidly rising terrain, the foothills to the small range of hills to the north. It was in these higher hills that they had some larger caliber artillery pieces tunneled all the way through to the Allies blind side.

By early 1968, the U.S. had already destroyed every foot of (the still famous) Highway 1, leading from the far south of this base, up to and past the once large bridge that crossed over the Ben Hai River to 'North Vietnam.' 

Unlike other bases to the west, Alpha I, II, III, Con Thein, "C I, II & III" bases were 'in plain sight' of the North Vietnam scope. This was "the front" for many kilometers heading inland from the South China Sea.

Giving much credit due, further to the west were a number of American and Allied bases surrounded by dense jungles and jagged mountain regions all the way to Laos. The Marine base of Khe San is a notable one in particular. 

Gio Linh at the time had two 50' tall wooden observation towers for 'manual' (binocular) forward observation, one on the north face, abandoned as it was very exposed, and another on the southwest side overlooking the main gate which led into the red dirt compound. 

Both towers were about 6'x6' on the inside of two layers of sandbags and had a tin roof. Underneath the southwest tower was a small water pump. It was called it the 'Shower Tower' as this was the only water supply on the base for the 100 or so allied troops. When the pump broke down, it was time for helmet showers and shaves - water was rationed at a single, potable water "mule" transported up from Dong Ha.

My story begins here.

I am not trying to belittle the soldiers mentioned. They were doing exactly what I wanted to do on my first day in the country. They wanted to win the war! Little did we know that our efforts to "protect American interests" meant companies like Shell and Mobile Oil, vast American rubber plantations and textile industries looking for Chinese silk.

September 22, 1969, was hot as normal. A half dozen or so Army soldiers had 'commandeered' a deuce-and-half (two and 1/2 ton truck) in Dong Ha or Quang Tri for an unauthorized trip. They headed north. They wanted to "see the front." About thirteen kilometers later, the road directed them on to the small mound just 46 meters above sea level, known as Alpha II.

After driving through the twisted paths around bunkers and artillery fortifications of the small base, they stopped at what we referred to as the (largely defunct by then) 'communications' bunker to ask for directions to "the front" from the only American they saw a single Marine, me.

It was quite obvious that they were "newbies" (newly arrived in the country). 

Their boots were new, their plain green uniforms didn't show evidence that they had been washed more than once, their chevrons (insignia of rank) were missing, but it could be seen that they had once been pinned to their collars.

They wouldn't give their names, ranks, or the 'call sign' of their unit. Their spokesman mentioned that they got confused when the road seemed to vanish, leading only to our small outpost. 

Not giving a sound answer after a round of "Who are you?" and "What the hell are you doing here?" I put it a different way...

"Well, no s*&#, Sherlock! This is THE most northern outpost in all of allied South Vietnam. If there is a front, this is it!"

I don't know what they expected to see, hear or do, maybe a big sign that said, "You are now at the frontline!" a welcoming committee, trench line or perhaps red, white, and blue banners or a 'still smoking .50 caliber machine gun'. I told them to leave - NOW! I was not of their unit or service, so they paid little attention to my warnings. It was just that way.

They just drove off around the base again, looking for another way north. A half an hour later, they wound up at the same bunker with me in their face again.
 
I repeatedly told them told them that "there was no road that went further north." "Highway one was destroyed years ago!" They just wouldn't be convinced.

Finally, I acquiesced. I told them if they wanted to see something, there was a big North Vietnamese flag planted on the far shore of the Ben Hai River, which they could see plainly without binoculars. I was upset, so I sent them up to the roof of the bunker told them to take their pictures and leave before I started calling for their superiors.

Much disappointed, they went to their truck and pulled out all of their brand new, purchased-in-Okinawa-on-the-way-overseas camera equipment and climbed to the top of the communications bunker. 

That small group of soldiers setting up their shiny new tripods did not go unnoticed for long. It took only minutes for the "crack-shot" North Vietnamese mortar teams hidden in the brushes south of the river to set up and start lobbing in shells.

 As I recall, not one of these new recruits went unscathed. The NVA needed no 'bracketing' (an artillery term). Just one round from one of their infamous 91mm mortars got them all.

Telling them to climb up and take their pictures was by far and away one of the biggest mistakes of my life. I should have thought more about it - I knew better! They went up all right - in smoke! These NVA teams had every inch of our base pegged in advance! 

If you are 'in-country' long enough, you get to recognize the 'pvoosh' sound as the deadly mortar round leaves the tube (origin). And, if you're real quick (and very lucky), you can almost guess about how many seconds might pass before the familiar 'vawuump' sound when it hits the ground. If your head was not buried before then, you wouldn't have heard that last sound -  nor any sound thereafter.

Still in the bunker and upon hearing the deafening explosion, I knew exactly what was happening; in fact, this same scenario took place once before during my twenty-month tenure on that same hill. 

The first mortar shell landed just shy of the bunker and blew upwards. The dust, dirt, and smoke immediately filled the dusty bunker from everywhere; it was so thick inside the bunker that for moments, I couldn't find the entranceways. 

Hearing the ruckus from a different position, the sole U.S. Navy 'Doc' corpsman, under fire, lit out for the bunker where and by the concussion of the second blast he was blown into the concertina wire and engineering stakes, himself suffering a shrapnel wound to his hand.

Everyone tried to scramble in. We were bumping into each other. The 'walking wounded' came in through both entrances; the smell of burned flesh and clothing putrefied the already dust-filled air.

Blood was spewing everywhere. It filled the cracks of the wooden flooring so much that the spiders and centipedes crawled up to the deck just to keep from being drowned themselves.

'Doc' and I tried our best to help these soldiers - those that showed any signs of life. We got them lined up on the floor as best we could when 'Doc' gave them the once over, and we started in on the most critically wounded. 

Having worked a short while, the corpsman asked me to go outside and look for others. I chose the north side of the bunker to exit - just a few steps up, there was a 'landing' where the entrance turned 90 degrees, then it went up just a few more steps to the outside.

As I up to the landing, I looked up and saw a soldier standing at the threshold of the bunker. He was as pale as a ghost and obviously disoriented. 

I tried to coax him down to the landing but soon realized that he couldn't hear anything after such an explosion. As I made my way up, I noticed that his eyes were wide open but completely covered over by the red, dusty dirt. He was in shock. He wouldn't move!

Once I got to the top step, I noticed that he was a large guy, and now we were both in harm's way! So, I swung his arm over my head and tried to grip him around his waist to help him manage the stairway. In a moment that I will never forget, all four of my fingers slid into a large gaping wound on his far side.

Immediately he passed out, causing us both to tumble down the steps to the landing. It was a scramble, but others joined in to help bring him inside.

Victor 'Doc' Bravo and I worked frantically jumping from one patient to another, establishing working pressure points, applying bandages and tourniquets, hooking up I.V.s, and at times our hands were cut, bleeding, and our fingertips were burnt while we tried to remove smoldering, white-hot chunks of metal from their clothing and wounds.

Shortly after, a big 'Chinook' medevac helicopter landed safely as U.S. soldiers and Marines came to assist with the loading and 'walking wounded'.

The helicopter was soon full but could not get off the ground. We had to literary beat off a number of ARVNs clinging to the chopper's landing skids. They were trying desperately to escape the bombardment to safety. 

In the helter-skelter of the moment, I didn't realize that one of the chopper crew had pulled the corpsman into the bird. I learned later that 'Doc's shrapnel was still embedded in his hand.

They flew toward the south where the quick-thinking pilot-in-command landed them on the USS Repose (AH-16), a Haven-class hospital ship in service with the U.S. Navy. I often wondered where the 'Doc' had disappeared to on that day as a few troops with slighter, bleeding wounds drove the truck back to its base.

A couple of months later, after all of the U.S. troops were evacuated, the base was overrun and captured by a large force of NVA soldiers equipped with tanks and armored personnel carriers even though the ARVNs had reinforced it heavily with more artillery. 

I wasn't even out of the country when I heard the news of their fall on the Armed Forces Radio Network. We lost some brave Vietnamese soldiers in that battle.

Years later, a psychiatrist asked me if I was ever able to contact any of the men wounded that day. But I never knew the names of the dead or wounded. As I told the good doctor, "Once they're on the chopper, you never know if they made it or not. They are either returned to their units or get sent home, some of them 'horizontally.'

Other than the surviving wounded, there is only myself and the true hero of this story, U.S. Navy Corpsman Victor 'Doc' Bravo, a three-tour man already, who can attest to the events of those hours. 

Telling my tidbit of a story has not been for glory or gore. As stated, I should have known better or maybe should have given them a stronger warning. This is something I will never forget or forgive of myself.

Until now, I've never been able to finish this story or send it to anyone. It has been a struggle each time I have tried to write, re-write, and make it comprehendible.

Much like the story of Boa Ninh, the author of The Sorrow of War, my personal attempts go around in circles, always leading back to this same day. 

There were a few other circumstances that now evade my consciousness but, I was the one who insisted that these soldiers "needed a picture" of that oversized North Vietnamese flag: Alpha II, Gio Linh's only "tourist attraction." A Kodak moment.