My fourth day in the field (20th in country) started, as many days in my immediate future would, hot, with more hot on the way. The Troop was given an alternate mission to the ones we had been on for my first few days. At around 9 a.m., we were contacted to form up the troop and proceed to a village, to establish a blocking position for an estimated company of Viet Cong. A sister troop of 3/4 Cav, and a company from a Mechanized Infantry Battalion, were attacking through the woods to our right front. We were to catch the VC/NVA if, or when they broke from the woods. We were in position by about ten. Word passed, quickly, to take fifty- % Class One break, you don't know when you'll get the next chance to eat.

Half the crews dismounted to heat their C- Rations. I, being a new guy and having just been introduced to the REAL world that we now inhabited, took twigs to build a small fire to heat my C's. Every one else used a small bit of C-4 plastic explosive. It burns very hot, so it heats a lot faster. Needless to say, everyone was about finished, before I even started. By the time my spaghetti and meatballs were near warm, but still congelled (read cold in the middle)they were yelling for me to hurry up. I picked up the can by the turned back lid, then stomped out the small fire. Climbing back to the turret of the Sheridan M551 AR/AAV, I sat on the loaders hatch, which had twin M73 coaxial machineguns field-mounted in front of it. The back-deck man standing in the loader's hatch manned the guns. SSG 'Dusty' Springfield, the TC (Track Commander) was behind the fifty in the TC's hatch. They had, as I said, finished eating. I stuck my plastic spoon into the can of spaghetti and suddenly, I was the only one on top. There were several zinging sounds, then Dusty's hand reached out of the TC's hatch, grabbing me by the collar. "Get down, dammit, they're shooting at us,", he yelled. I launched the C-rat can, as I dove headfirst through the hatch, on top of him. I never saw that can again! It may still be in orbit...

Inside the turret, I collected my wits, as best as I could, considering the amount of adrenaline that had just been injected into my blood stream.

"Look and see if you can find where the fire is coming from," said Dusty.

"Fuck you, look for yourself. I'm not stickin' my head out there."

I peered through the vision blocks surrounding the TC hatch, but could not determine the location of the shooter(s). A broadcast over the platoon freq. pointed us to the right flank of the nearby village. Apparently the fire was coming from a hooch nearer the wood-line, where the suspected VC were located. It could not be verified, so we did not fire on it, due to the possibility of causing civilian casualties. We did not receive any more fire on our blocking position.

We could hear the other troop, and the mech outfit, advancing into and through the woods. There was a sustained volume of small arms fire punctuated by the occasional blast of a Sheridan's main gun. There were also the smaller explosions of RPGs (Rocket-Propelled-Grenades).This continued for an hour or so. We sat at the ready, in the mid-morning heat. The clear skies offered no resistance to the bright sunlight.

Papasan and little girl

Suddenly, I noticed a lone figure approaching our front, coming from the village to our left front. He was headed for our tank. He had something in his arms that could not be distinguished. As SSG Dusty Springfield grabbed a pair of binoculars, the rest of us manned our respective weapons in tense anticipation.

"Hold your fire! He has a child in his arms. Keep ready for anything," announced Dusty.

As the Papasan neared our position, I picked up my M-16 to cover him. I then saw my first casualty of war, a little girl of about 10 to 12 years old. She was nude, except for the peasant shirt she wore. Her buttocks were bloody chunks of mutilated flesh. Blood dripped to the ground beneath. Her eyes belied the fear and anguish she must have been going through. Papasan pleaded through tear-filled, anguished eyes and rapid-fire, singsong Vietnamese. Dusty radioed the El-Tee to send over the medic.

The medic arrived and a stretcher was brought out. The girl was placed upon it, lying on her stomach.

Her head turned toward us, I could see that her eyes were dry, unlike mine, tears streaming down my face.

'Why her, an innocent child? Why not me? I was a soldier, I should be the one lying mangled upon that stretcher, not her,' my mind was crying out.

A med-evac chopper was brought in to transport the child to a hospital. It was time to get back to the nasty, heartless business of war. Papasan returned to his unknown fate, as his babysan flew to hers. We are now bound for our own fate.

The battle

Shortly thereafter, the word came from higher that we were to join in battle. The other units had come under an intense fuselage of fire, and the advance was halted, in fact, driven back to a safe (?) distance, so the lines could be reformed.

Our engines were fired up and we swung around to face the wood-line, the left flank formed an angle to watch the village as we advanced to the attack. We were attacking the right flank of the enemy.

Our advance was so rapid that our right flank soon came in the line of fire of the other American units. This became evident when the Sheridan tank on the right flank had the right-side headlight and protective framework, ripped apart by fire coming from the right rear of the formation. The fire was coming through the thick woods and undergrowth. The right flank was ordered to pull back as communications between the commanders of the adjacent units and ours determined the positions of all. We had, indeed, advanced into the line of fire of the flanking unit. Fortunately, other than the damage to the tank, there were no casualties due to the incident.

The flanks were joined and the advance through the woods continued. The return fire increased in volume, as we rolled forward, pushing and blasting all likely spots of concealment of our foes, everything and everywhere. The back-deck men were kept busy passing munitions to the TC and watching the rear in case any spider-hole covers were to pop open behind us. My M-73's were fed from two Mini-Gun ammo boxes, holding 2500 rounds each.

At some point, the back deck man, Renae (?) 'Revolutionary' (A Nicaraguan National, I do not recall his last name), began yelling at me. I could not understand what he was saying, "You het! You het!"

I turned to him, yelling over the din of battle, "l What? I can't understand you!"

"You are het!" He grabbed my wrist, raising it into the air. Blood flowed from my elbow. He ripped my sleeve from cuff to elbow, but I saw no wound! There was a blood-covered arm, no wound that I could see. I felt no pain. Where was the blood coming from?

Spotting a flow down my forearm, I saw that the blood was coming from several small fragment wounds in the area between my thumb and forefinger, of my right hand. Renae gave me his handkerchief. I wrapped it around my hand to stop the bleeding, and continued my mission.

The battle continued throughout the afternoon with re-supply choppers landing in the rear. Munitions were ferried to the line of battle by APCs. We went through two basic loads of canister and HEAT-MP rounds and thousands of rounds of fifty-caliber and 7.62 millimeter ammo. I had 7 extra barrels for the twin M-73 machine guns mounted on the left side of the turret, in front of the loader's hatch. By the end of the afternoon, all were useless by either being burned out, warped, or jammed by ruptured cartridges. Rounds cooking off in barrels too hot to have rounds chambered and the bolts fully closed caused the ruptured cartridges. I was down to firing my rifle (M-16A2) between intervals of loading the main gun. Every now and then, hand grenades were thrown, either to the front or into holes suspected to be fighting positions or entrances to tunnels. There were dismounted troopers that checked these positions, after the vehicles passed. They also protected our rear, in addition to the back-deck man.

Late in the afternoon or early evening, we broke through the far side of the woods. I don't think that I had ever been as happy in all of my twenty years. We had fought most of the day and I had not seen a single one of the enemy!

We were ordered to return to Firebase Hampton, just outside of Trang Bang. It was dark when we reached the firebase and pulled into defensive positions. There was not the bravado of surviving the fight that I had expected from the men of the troop. Most of the men stayed with their own crew at their vehicle. There was not much bragging at all, that I remember

The next morning, two platoons were ordered to return to sweep through the battleground. My platoon was to stay at the firebase, providing perimeter security. As the other platoons vacated their positions, the second herd moved their vehicles to various positions around the perimeter of the firebase. There we stayed; cleaning weapons, making repairs, replenishing expended supplies, munitions and such.

We awaited the return of our sister platoons that hot June afternoon. They returned with the news that the suspected Viet Cong company had been annialated. There was a bodycount of 95 enemy. I had not seen a single one of them!

My accomplishments of the battle; I was wounded; I performed my duties well; I was now a combat veteran, accepted by my crewmates, platoon and troop as one of them. No longer was I a FNG!

WTM 3 July 2001