By Bruce “T-Bone” Jones, Guest Author

Part One – Becoming a Marine

During the early years of the Vietnam War, the military draft brought the war to the American homefront.  The draft made a significant, personal impact on young American men, including me. Healthy, eligible young men ages 18-25 who didn’t have a deferment faced conscription into the Army. At 21 years old, I knew a draft letter was in my very near future. 

A month earlier, I had reported for a pre-induction physical at the local federal building and was found to be solid cannon fodder for the war. Almost any day I was going to receive a “Greetings from Uncle Sam” letter. I was faced with being drafted and serving in the Army, or volunteering for another branch of the military.

I chose the United States Marine Corps. It was definitely not a conscious choice based on logical evaluation. I wasn’t infatuated with the dress blues uniform; it was a choice of sheer impulse.  After all, the Marine Corps was tough! It had a brave war-fighting tradition and if I was going to participate in a war, I was going to be the “first to fight!” In retrospect, I simply wanted to find out what war was about and if I was tough enough to hack it. 

My boot camp training was just as I thought. It was rigorous and de-humanizing as hell.  The drill instructors tore you down and built you up in the image of a fine killing machine. My body was strong, and my mind was clear. You learned to obey a command without any hesitation, and it was expected to be performed with your very best intention.

Never in my life had I tried so hard to meet a set standard, let alone rigorous Marine Corps standards. It tested me physically and mentally like I had never been tested before. I was proud that I met the mark to become a Marine. At boot camp graduation, I was welcomed into the warrior society of the United States Marine Corps. OOORAAHH!

Based on my high aptitude test scores, I was scheduled to attend electronics school at C&E Battalion, MCRD San Diego after my thirty-day boot camp leave. With a MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) of Electronics Radio Repairman, I was supposed to receive training in electronics. In short, I had been assigned the “brass ring” of MOSs in the Corps. Even if I was sent to Vietnam, I would never go on any combat patrols or ever leave a secure area; I would be repairing radios “in the rear with the gear.” I had it made! 

The training consisted of 10 weeks of basic electronics class and 36 weeks of radio repair. You were required to pass a weekly test to move on through the course curriculum. If I had studied harder instead of drinking every night off-base or at the EM Club, I might have finished the training. At 21, I had become a drunken shit-bird! 

After 11 months of failing out of every electronics school C&E Battalion had to offer, the first sergeant called me into his office.

“Well, PFC Jones, you have managed to piss away one of the best training opportunities in the Marine Corps. What the hell do you want your Marine Corps to do for you, Jones? What career choice are you looking for?” 

Bluntly I replied, “Well I know I don’t want to repair radios in Vietnam sitting in an air-conditioned hardback hooch in Da Nang.”  

First Sergeant Davis looked at me with his face crimson red and yelled, “Well, Marine, I’ve got just the right job for you. You will remain in the ‘Eeelektronicks’ field that you tested so high in, but your MOS won’t be so fancy. I am shipping your sorry ass to Camp Pendleton for Ground Radio Operator School and then VIETNAM. Now, how do you like that?” 

I responded like the fool I was then, “Doubt if I have much choice, Top.” 

He looked at me with total disapproval and said, “No shit, Marine, and in addition, you get thirty days of mess duty before I send you on your way! And now, get the fuck out of my office!” 

The United States Marine Corps wanted an intelligent radio repairman. They got a dumb, radio-humping grunt!

Part Two – Arriving in Vietnam

After Ground Radio Training at Camp Pendleton, a thirty-day Christmas leave, and Staging Battalion, I arrived in Vietnam. I was assigned to an 81mm mortar section that was located near the Dai Loc Bridge a short distance from Hill 55 outside of Da Nang and was ordered to report to this mortar section as a replacement forward observer radio operator.

I was now officially assigned to Bravo Company 81s, 1st Battalion, 26th Marines Regiment, and yes I was an “FNG” with three days in-country!  A truck had just dropped me off in front of the Bravo Company mortar section after a short drive from Hill 55 to the bridge. 

The day I arrived, the Marines in the mortar crew were running gun drills on a mortar, trying to beat their individual set-up times. The competition consisted of a man standing upright over the mortar and on command, dropping down to his knees and spinning the mortar tube in the base plate and positioning the tripod in alignment with the aiming stakes. Then he had to use the horizontal and vertical sights to level and adjust the mortar for an accurate, rapid set-up. If the gun was verified to be “on bubble” and set up accurately on the correct azimuth, the time was recorded, and the competition would continue with the next man trying to beat the fastest set-up time. 

I later understood that if a man was consistently the fastest and the most accurate, he could assume the position of “gunner” on the gun crew. So, there I was, standing there watching men throw a mortar into position while screaming and cussing at each other.  It was not until they had tallied their set-up times that they even acknowledged me.

“I’m the new forward observer radio operator,” I said. They just looked at me with blank expressions and then one Marine said, “Gilbert, take him to see Staff Sergeant Luck.”

As we walked across the bare patch of ground that made up the Bravo section of 81mm Mortars, I couldn’t help but notice how casual everyone acted. No helmets, no shirts, and all their rifles propped up next to their flak jackets inside the gun pits. Maybe Vietnam wouldn’t be so bad after all.

I just HAD to ask THE question: “Get any action around here, Gilbert?” 

“I have been here less than two months and almost nothing,” he replied. “The grunts catch a few sniper rounds on patrol, but otherwise it’s quiet. The gooks leave us alone, and we leave them alone.” 

We approached a large bunker. Country Western music was playing inside and a drunken voice was singing along, slurring the lyrics to a Willie Nelson song.

“This here is the Fire Detection Control Center (FDC) bunker. Fire missions start and end here and…all the ‘lifers’ live here.” Gilbert stuck his head in the doorway and yelled, “Staff Sergeant Luck! Your new radioman is out here. He’s reporting in!” Then he turned around and without saying another word, walked off leaving me standing alone outside the FDC bunker. That was my introduction to the best friend I would ever serve with in Vietnam.

I was assigned the job of humping the PRC 25 radio for the Bravo Company 81s mortar forward observer. Sgt. Joe Castillo was a “Tex-Mex” from Corpus Cristi, Texas, and he was a veteran of ten months in Nam. A forward observer team is comprised of a forward observer (FO) and a radioman who provides mortar support to a Marine company in the field. The FO reads the topographical map and directs the mortars on the base where and what to fire at the enemy. The radioman relays all the FO’s directions and carries the radio in the bush.

Joe could read a map better than most of the company officers, and his skill was highly respected by the command staff of Bravo. He always knew where we were in the bush, which was a valuable skill required to prevent errant rounds from landing on our “friendlies.” I learned quickly to listen to all his advice about humping in the jungle and how to be a competent radioman.

Whenever and wherever units of Bravo Company went into the field, we went too. Early on, I struggled physically to hump all my gear and a radio that weighed 20 pounds plus a spare battery. Joe’s advice and support helped me to adapt to the rigors of humping the mountainous terrain around the Khe Sanh Combat Base. He would even carry the radio to give me a rest and help prevent my heat stroke!

Part Three – Our FO Team

In June, our two-man FO team grew to three with the addition of Gilbert Wall. He was assigned to replace Sgt. Joe Castillo who was going on leave to the US. Joe had extended his tour in Nam for six months and was going to be re-assigned to an MP unit in Da Nang. MP duty was SWEET! And SAFE!  Air-conditioned housing, dry cot with a real mattress, hot showers, and cold beer and steaks!  But before that sweet duty could begin, he had to train Gilbert as his FO replacement.

Joe indicated to me that he was satisfied with Gilbert as a potential replacement. He had been recommended by Staff Sgt. Morris because he’d shown an interest in the functions of the FDC. He had asked a lot of questions about directing mortar fire, more so than any other mortar man within the section. In addition, he was excellent at using a lensatic compass which was critical for directing outgoing rounds and adjustment during a fire mission. Gilbert’s OJT began by going on all Bravo Company patrols and observing Joe in the pre-patrol meetings with the Bravo command group.

My first months in Nam passed by quickly with the same monotonous patrols with only one disastrous contact with the NVA. It was on June 7^th, and it was bloody! It was NOT a proud day for Gilbert and me. Bravo Company was hit by 30 mortar rounds and then we were assaulted by an overwhelming force of 40 NVA. It was our first patrol without Sgt. Castillo, who by then was home stateside on leave. 

Gilbert tried to call in a fire mission, but I could not make contact with our mortars on top of 881! I tried to switch to our back-up frequency but still could not communicate with the guns. The incoming machine gun fire and grenades had us pinned down and all we could do was stay low while I fiddled with that damn PRC 25 radio! When the enemy was finally beat off, the only thing Gilbert and I did to support Bravo was to carry a dead Marine to the med-evacuation area.       

During his training, Gilbert and I became good friends. We were together 24/7. Gilbert was almost 21 and more mature than the 18-19 year-old men we served with in Nam.  During our off hours or on radio watch, we talked about our families, civilian jobs, and girls!

Gilbert was a Blackfoot Indian from Browning, Montana. He grew up in a large family like me, and like me he was raised poor, and that was where the comparison ended. I learned that he was a product of the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) school system. At age eight, he was sent to a BIA boarding school in Flandreau, South Dakota, 1,140 miles from his home. He described the school as a harsh Dickensian existence, one that the students were expected to bear in rigid obedience and prescribed silence.

They cut off his long hair, forbade him to speak his tribal language, confiscated all his personal belongings that were “Indian,” and dictated their harsh rules of conduct. Gilbert was to spend the next twelve years at the school with only summer breaks at home in Montana. But these summer trips home ended when the students became teenagers.  In their teens, the students remained at the school year-round.

The local farmers would “hire” the older boys and girls as farm hands and domestics during the summer. The children were not paid for their work and were told their earnings were being saved and would be given to them upon graduation. Gilbert said he never did receive the money when he graduated!  He said the education was terrible and although he was good at math, he was not able to read or write well when he graduated. I realized right then that Gilbert had a much different life growing up than I did.  

While Gilbert was quiet, his actions and the way he carried himself spoke volumes about his character.  Between us, our friendship was strong; we knew we could count on each other. That bond would soon be tested under very dangerous conditions during our first combat with the NVA. 

During most of July, Gilbert’s training and our patrols continued with no sighting of the NVA. Every time we stopped to take a break on patrol, Sgt. Castillo would ask Gilbert to identify our current location on his map. When we set up camp for the night, they would huddle together to discuss and plan the nightly “on call” missions and select defensive targets to protect us in case of an enemy attack. It was rigorous “show and tell” training and Gilbert was learning fast! He grew more confident with each passing day. 

On July 20th, 1967, First Platoon was assigned to conduct a recon sweep away from the combat base to Route 9. Our orders were to run a patrol along this road to discover any potential ambush sites that could intercept and destroy our supply convoys coming north to our base. Vietnamese “Highway” Nine was no more than a narrow gravel road that ran alongside the Dai Trang River. Barely wide enough for two trucks to pass by together, it was the only overland road to the Khe Sanh Combat Base.

Day one of the sweep consisted of humping overland to Route 9, then setting up defensive positions on the high ground overlooking the road for the night. On the morning of July 21, we descended to the road, organized our positions for the march, and proceeded south down Route 9. The platoon formation consisted of one column on the left flank on the high ground above the road, and another column on the right a short distance below the road near the river. The command group and our FO team were in the middle of the road, followed by a 60mm mortar team.

It was not long before the pace slowed to near zero. The left flank on the high ground was faced with some very formidable terrain and had slowed the entire platoon down.  They were in a thick bamboo forest with a jungle canopy that almost completely blocked the sunlight, darkening their path forward. In addition, the ground sloped precipitously downhill on the column’s right side. The platoon commander had instructed that the left column remain slightly ahead of the remainder of the platoon, and if possible, stay in visual contact with the other Marines on the road.

Neither of these was the case. The order was given to the left column to proceed as planned, and after getting ahead of the rest of the platoon, the movement on the road would commence. It wasn’t 15 minutes later that the left column made enemy contact! They were almost in the dark, in a firefight with a dug-in NVA ambush, and it was going very badly for the Marines on the left flank. 

Almost simultaneously, the remainder of the platoon came under withering fire to the front and our right across the river. Joe immediately crouched down, looked back at me and Gilbert and said, “Standby, fire mission!” I immediately closed the two-foot gap between Joe and me while saying, “Whiskey Bravo, this is Whiskey Bravo 1, fire mission, over.”

By the time I keyed the handset on my radio and voiced those words, I was crouched directly behind Joe, waiting for his next words.  He had always instructed me to remain close to him during a fire mission. Over and over he would say, “T-Bone…when the shit hits the fan, you had better be crawling up my ass!  We don’t want to miscommunicate and fuck up a fire mission. We’re supposed to kill the gooks, not our own men!” 

Joe pulled his map out of his flak jacket and quickly yelled the target grid with the corresponding azimuth and then said, “Fire one round of Whiskey Papa (white phosphorous or WP), will adjust.” I immediately repeated his directions and then nervously looked behind me and there was Gilbert Wall listening intently.

The radio crackled in a few minutes; it seemed like a lifetime. I heard, “One round Whiskey Papa, out.” I began to repeat the response from the guns located at the previously destroyed bridge site along the river, and Joe interrupted me mid-sentence, “I heard.”

We all started to look for our WP spotter round to impact so Joe could begin his adjustments to his target. After waiting enough time for the spotter round to impact and not seeing its white cloud across or up the river, Joe yelled, “Moving up,” and started running up to the next bend in the road. Gilbert and I scrambled up and ran after Joe. We didn’t catch up to him until he had run around the bend in the road and was crouched down near a sheer cliff along the road looking for that spotter round. 

All the while we were conducting our fire mission, the “mad minute” had begun!  Responding with small arms fire from individual Marines, machine guns, M79 grenade launchers, and 60mm mortars all firing across and up the river. Rifle, machine gun fire, and explosions could be heard coming from the high ground with the NVA matching our firepower.

Hugging the ground while our eyes scanned for the tell-tale wisp of white smoke from our spotter round, the entire FO team came under intense NVA fire. Machine gun bursts landed above our heads showering us with rock fragments, and then it happened!  I looked to my left and Joe was trembling while blood spurted out between his partially opened flak jacket. I looked closer and there was a gunshot wound in his upper chest.  He started to slump to the ground and his face lost its color; he was dead! 

All of a sudden, I felt a hard slap and a strong sting on the right side of my neck.  Instinctively I reached up and felt a bloody patch on my neck and my finger discovered a bullet hole! I was stunned but didn’t go into shock. As I turned to my right, reacting to the gunshot wound, I observed Gilbert was lying in the road behind me.

I started to reach for him and then I saw a blue-green-yellow flash above my head and my field of vision shrunk and waves of concussion hit my body. In addition, I felt these little bumps and pin pricks all over my head, face and arms.  My vision started to disappear! I lost the sight of my left eye almost immediately and I could barely see out of my right eye. I later found out that an RPG had exploded near us and that caused all the shrapnel to hit us.

Squinting with my right eye, I rolled Gilbert over and blood squirted from his mouth.  I had learned in our battlefield first aid class that this was a sign of a bullet or shrapnel wound through one or both lungs. Guessing, I tipped him on his right side and luckily he was shot through that right lung so he could breathe with his remaining good lung. I also found out later that the bullet had entered through Gilbert’s left shoulder and the round had exited through his right lung and side. 

My adrenaline must have disappeared soon after because the last thing I heard Gilbert say as I passed out was, “T-Bone, lie down and play dead!” 

The firefight ended as soon as it had started. I regained consciousness while being lifted through the door of a med-evac chopper. Lying on the floor of the chopper, Gilbert made eye contact and I began to moan. Gilbert reached over with a comforting hand on my shoulder and said, “What the hell just happened to us?” I responded with tears in my eyes, “We lost Joe! And we found the NVA!” The chopper lifted off and I was so glad to be alive!  

We thank T-Bone for sharing his memories in this guest blog. He and his wife, Francine, have been devoted supporters of our documentary films. In two days, on July 23, please join us in wishing T-Bone a very happy and healthy 80th birthday!

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Thank you for reading, and for honoring all Vietnam War veterans by sharing Bruce’s story with friends and other veterans. 

BRAVO! can be viewed on Amazon Prime. We also have DVDs available, which can be ordered on our website at https://bravotheproject.com.

You can find information about our companion film featuring eleven amazing spouses of combat veterans, one of whom is Francine, at https://imarriedthewar.com. I Married the War can be viewed on Amazon. DVDs are also available via the website.

Last week I had the privilege of speaking before 150 folks at Nampa, Idaho’s Warhawk Air Museum. I talked about the making of BRAVO! and my experience at the Siege of Khe Sanh.

Most of the attendees were veterans, many of them men who fought in World War II and Korea. There were also a good number of Vietnam War veterans as well as men and women who fought in the wars of the Middle East. We even had active duty United States Air Force officers, a front seater (pilot) and a back seater (weapons officer), who fly F-15E Strike Eagles out of Mountain Home Air Force Base in Mountain Home, Idaho.

Guest speaker Ken Rodgers and Barry Hill of the Warhawk Air Museum discussing the display screen prior to the event. Photo courtesy of Betty Rodgers.

The Warhawk Air Museum is a local marvel as far as military museums go. Lots of old planes and choppers, but the most amazing thing to me is the personal testimonials and memorabilia available to view. As one of the men who attended the screening said, “It’s a very personal museum.”

The Warhawk also records video interviews of veterans talking about their combat experiences, sponsors field trips for school children and has educational classes so students in the area’s schools can learn about the military and wars directly from veterans, the folks who know the emotional aspects of combat.

Visitors who travel through Idaho go to see the museum as they pass through, and for some, a trip to the Warhawk is a destination in itself.

Thanks to Sue Paul and Barry Hill and the staff and volunteers at the museum for their support on my presentation as well as all they do for veterans and the memory of those who have served our country. If you are interested in finding out more about the Warhawk you can find their webpage at http://warhawkairmuseum.org/.

Some of the folks who attended the event at the Warhawk Air Museum. Photo courtesy of Betty Rodgers

Several weeks back I blogged about June 1, 1967. Today I want to write about June 14, 1967 at Khe Sanh. On today’s date in 1967 Bravo Company was dug in on Hill 881 South and still staggering from the events of June 7 when a patrol ran into an NVA ambush and we lost 19 good men.

Besides living with our collective grief and agony, at 16:15 on June 14, 3rd Platoon Bravo received an incoming sniper round and responded by calling in an 81 MM mortar mission that evidently silenced the sniper. Whether the sniper was actually nullified or if he moved to another location was not known.

Elsewhere in 1/26’s area of responsibility in the Khe Sanh region, Charlie Company discovered an enemy bunker and destroyed it with five pounds of C-4.

A look at Route 9 outside Khe Sanh. Notice the rough terrain.

The battalion’s command chronologies for 6/14 made the area sound relatively quiet for a war zone.

It was about this time that Bravo went out on patrol to Hill 881 North and beyond, and in the process of digging around in the old battle sites of the Hill Fights which happened in March and April of 1967, found the scattered remains of human bodies partially sticking out of the mud where a fresh torrent of rainwater had eroded what looked like a burial site.

Someone spotted a ragged uniform remnant and that led to someone else digging around in the red-mud mess and then a femur appeared out of the muck with swatches of what we assumed was an NVA uniform still attached. The bone was yanked out of the ground and the femur soon hung off the jungle dungaree trousers of some Marine whose name I cannot recall.

In my memory, I cannot see the Marine’s face but I can see that leg bone dangling off the left side of his dirty dungarees. I don’t think that lasted long. I suspect the platoon sergeant or some officer spotted the bone on the belt and delivered an order that the bone was to be disposed of. You hear stories over the course of your life about a Marine who cut off and collected the ears of his enemy or Marines who pulled the gold teeth out of the mouths of enemy corpses. I never saw any of that, but I did see the bone dangling off the leg.

I usually have a good memory for names and faces of the men I served with in Vietnam, but during this time frame, subsequent to the ambush of 6/7, the faces that haunt my memory are like a maze of eyes and mouths and skin colors. We were an ethnically diverse group, I believe, because that’s how it was back in the 60s before the draft was killed.

What became 2nd Platoon of Bravo 1/26 was a mix of men from both 2nd and 1st Platoons, which had taken the bulk of casualties from the event of 6/7/67. We had, for a short time, a new platoon commander, Ben Long, who went on to command 1st Platoon and then became Bravo Company’s XO during the Siege in early 1968.

A look at the mountains around Khe Sanh.

I often think how difficult it must have been to run an efficient platoon filled with a number of men who had no familiarity with each other. I know the Marine Corps prides itself on the ability of the NCOs to run the ship, but when you don’t know the man who’s got your back, it’s hard to trust him and if you don’t trust him, he knows it and if he knows it, he won’t trust you as much as he might need.

Fortunately we had a strong set of NCOs: Staff Sergeant Ward and Sergeant Blankenship and Sergeant Martinez, Corporal Dede, Corporal Poorman, Corporal Fideli and others whose names I can’t remember.

The Marines of 2nd Platoon were a dirty, ragged bunch, but Lieutenant Long and the NCOs held us together. We became a unit of Marines. We learned to trust each other and to work with each other despite a number of obstacles in leadership that kept coming to the fore after Lieutenant Long went to on to command the newly reconstituted 1st Platoon.

As the summer wore on, we moved from Hill 881 South to the combat base and then some of us went out on Route 9 for over a week after 1st Platoon busted up an NVA ambush intended to fry bigger fish, traffic of heavy guns going up to Khe Sanh. Then we moved on to Hill 861 and then back to the combat base and rivers of rain.

It was a summer of long patrols and nights spent out in the mist and rain waiting for an enemy that would not show up. Occasionally we took sniper rounds or someone got a glimpse of the enemy, but there was little action and when there is not action, Marines turn to work to keep themselves out of trouble.

So we dug and dug and filled sandbags and installed culverts made from 55 gallon drums with both ends cut out so the trenches would drain and we wouldn’t have to stand knee deep in the water that accumulated from the incessant precipitation.

We were damp and dirty and often soaked. But we persevered.

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DVDs of BRAVO! are available. Please consider gifting copies to a veteran, a teacher, a history buff, a library, a friend or family member. For more information, go to https://bravotheproject.com/store/.

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Bravo Company 1/26 came off of Hill 881 South on July 10, 1967, and went into battalion reserve at the combat base, first at the west end and then into the trenches on the north side of the perimeter. Bravo stood line watch, ran patrols, listening posts and ambushes for the next ten days.

On July 21, Mike Company, 3/26, engaged elements of the North Vietnamese Army northeast of the base and suffered five KIA.
If I was aware of Mike Company, 3/26’s casualties, I don’t recall. When units got hit around Khe Sanh I usually went into a funk; scattered, not focused on cleaning my rifle or gathering the rest of my gear in case we charged into the maw of battle. I would flit from task to task, smoke a Camel, clean part of my weapon, grab some grenades, smoke a Camel…I don’t recall doing any of these tasks.

View looking down on the Quang Tri River Valley where Route 9 ran. Photo by John Corvus

On the same date, another Mike Company—Mike 3/3—was also out in the vicinity of Mike 3/26 and they, too, took casualties; 11 KIA. Again, I have no memory of that event or the edgy fear that probably gnawed at the back of my brain as I tried to stay focused and not look like I was afraid.

Also on that same day, Bravo 1/26’s First Platoon was out east of the combat base patrolling down Route 9 when they got ambushed. Three men were killed on that patrol: one 81 MM forward observer with H & S Company, 1/26, and two men from Bravo’s First Platoon. Some of the men in our film BRAVO! were on that patrol.

As soon as Second Platoon, my outfit, got the word about First Platoon being ambushed, Sergeant Michael Dede came down the line and told us to gather our gear.

I shared a bunker with a salty Marine who had come over to Bravo earlier in the year from 3/26. He was a short-timer. I do not recall his name. At that moment, he was teaching me how to play Back Alley Bridge and as we played our cards, he was cleaning out my pockets. We were playing for money—Military Payment Certificates—because, as he told me in his clipped Boston accent, if you weren’t committing something of value, then you wouldn’t be at your best.

Dede told us to get ammo, grenades, poncho liner, and other gear we’d need for a helicopter insertion in support of First Platoon. My bunker mate sat back and grinned, and as I tried to gather my gear, flitting like a mosquito from one item to the next, he cajoled me to keep playing the game since there was no guarantee we’d be going anywhere.

I recall him saying, “You know how it is. Hurry up and wait.”

So as I got my gear together and rumors of death and combat circulated like demons among the men of Second Platoon, he collected more and more of my MPC.

Finally, Sergeant Dede came down the line and told us to assemble on the air strip and await choppers to transport us out to assist First Platoon. My bunker mate was so short he didn’t have to go. I can see him, right now in my mind’s view, leaning back on his rack, smiling, his big red mustache and his disheveled shock of red hair implanted in my memory. He was counting my MPC.

We sat on the air strip in the sun. It was hot and we were nervous. Some of us talked incessantly. Some of us didn’t say anything.

I don’t know that I thought about it then, but I think about it now. Something of value. Some MPC in a game of Back Alley Bridge. Some casualties out on Route 9. My young life available to what…be wounded, killed, captured, honored? Something of value, like the lives of those 19 Marines who died in our TAOR that day, and the wounded men, too, whose names we don’t put up on monuments.

Finally, the helicopters arrived and we loaded up and away we went.

Michael E. O’Hara during his interview for Bravo!
Photo by Betty Rodgers

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On the screening front, BRAVO! will be screened at the Union League Club of Chicago, 65 West Jackson Blvd, Chicago, Illinois on July 24, 2014. Sponsored by American Legion Post 758, this event begins with registration at 5:00 PM. The film will be screened at 5:30 followed by a Q & A session with Co-producers Betty and Ken Rodgers, BRAVO! Marine Michael E. O’Hara, and Echo Company, 2/26’s Tom Eichler, the president of the Khe Sanh Veterans Association. Complimentary snacks will be provided and there will be a cash bar with beverages of your choice.

The program will end at 8:00 PM. Reservations are required. To reserve your seats please go to the Eventbrite registration page @ https://bravofilm.eventbrite.com/.

Please note, this event is business casual: no jeans, no denim, no shorts; shirts must have collars.

If you would like to host a screening of BRAVO! in your town this fall or winter, please contact us immediately.
DVDs of BRAVO! are available. For more information go to https://bravotheproject.com/buy-the-dvd/.

BRAVO! has a page on Facebook. Please “like” us and “share” the page at https://www.facebook.com/Bravotheproject/. It’s another way you can help spread the word about the film.

I was at Illinois State University in Bloomington/Normal, Illinois, when I enlisted in the Marine Corps, and arrived in Vietnam sometime in the first part of May, 1967. Within a few days, I was sent to Khe Sanh. At that time I was 24 with my birthday being July 23.

Ben Long at Khe Sanh

When I arrived, I became Executive Officer of H&S Company and I think I worked in that position for about a month. On June 8, 1967, I became 1st Platoon Commander of Bravo Company the day before 1st & 2nd Platoons were in a firefight, and there were quite a few wounded. Both lieutenants were wounded in the firefight so the two platoons were combined for a while till more men joined us. I continued as 1st Platoon Commander till late January or early February when I became Executive Officer of Bravo Company under then Captain Ken Pipes. I remained XO of Bravo for a while after leaving Khe Sanh.

As a Platoon Leader we did a lot of patrolling and night ambushes. In July of 1967, 1st Platoon was reinforced with weapons, 60 mm mortar and artillery FOs. We were to check out 9 grid squares along Route 9. They told us that they were going to bring 155s up to Khe Sanh by Route 9. On July 21 we ran into what we thought was a battalion-size unit setting up to ambush along Route 9. I have read later that they say it was only a company. By the grace of God our squad in column up off the road in the thick elephant grass triggered them before we reached their ambush sight. We did lose some men but only a few compared to what could have happened.

Ben Long

I presently work with an international interdenominational Christian ministry called The Navigators. Navigators are people who love Jesus Christ and desire to help others know and grow in Him as they “navigate” through life. While ministering in Singapore for 16 years, my wife and I became accustomed to the Chinese culture. So today we work a lot with Chinese students at the University of Iowa.

February 25th is, for the men who served with Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, 26th Marines at Khe Sanh, a day that owns a particular and personal infamy. We left a lot of good Marines on the field that day. Guest blogger Bill Jayne was in Bravo Company on February 25th, 1968. He shares some of his memories and his thoughts.

The story of 25 February is well-known. It was the day of the Ghost Patrol when Lt. Jacques’ 3rd Platoon was almost wiped out within about a thousand meters of the Khe Sanh perimeter. This is a story of the 1st Platoon, the reaction force that never reached the 3rd Platoon.

My memory says February 25, 1968 dawned relatively clear and a little cool on the Khe Sanh Plateau. I kept my too-small field jacket on. Although our hold on the area was related to the weather, it was much more important to note that two days before more than 1,300 rounds had impacted somewhere on the combat base and one of ours had died along with four others. Vinny Mottola was an 0351—rocket man—who was funny, irreverent, and always carried his own weight. He died with the crew of a 106mm recoilless rifle when something big, probably a rocket, hit them.

The next day, the 24th, Bravo Company had a few wounded from incoming but no KIA. After filling sand bags and other housekeeping chores most of the day, my fire team from the second squad of the 1st Platoon, had an LP on the night of the 24th. Out in that almost liquid darkness, when a Marine shifted his weight in our LP position, it sounded like Gen. Giap leading legions of NVA into position for a human-wave attack. When a piece of 782 gear scraped against the clay, it was the tanks that overran Lang Vei coming to gun us down. Maybe my fears were close to the truth. Military intelligence knew the NVA were digging trenches perpendicular to our lines so they could stage assault troops close to our positions.

Yet, by 0715 the next morning, we were back inside the wire. Very soon, we started hearing the noise of small arms fire out where Bravo’s 3rd Platoon was on patrol. Our squad and another from 1st Platoon saddled up and headed out the wire.

We paralleled the access road to Rte. 9, heading southeast. I thought I saw movement in a tree line ahead and told PFC Joe Battle “Get out on the right, you’re the only protection we have.” Joe immediately headed toward the brush growing alongside the road.

He was a big, lanky black Marine who said he was from Houston, Texas. Just about a week shy of his 19th birthday, he could be pretty funny. One time, Joe asked a bunch of us if we knew what “KKK” stood for. Nobody said a word until Joe, cracking up, informed us that the right answer was “Kool Kolored Kids!”

I don’t remember if Joe shot expert, but I know he was a good shot. One night in early February the fog was so bad they kept our LP outside the wire in the morning until the sun started to clear the mist. We saw a Vietnamese heading for our lines wearing nothing but a piece of parachute. “Dung lai!” we yelled, but he kept running. He was downhill and about 75 meters away but Joe stopped him with two M16 rounds that hit him in the arm.

A couple of weeks later, moving toward the sound of the fire that was consuming 3rd Platoon, Joe tripped the ambush that stopped 1st Platoon. The fire came at our squad from two sides and at very close range. Joe was down…out of sight, gone forever. Three or four of us hit the deck and returned fire. Had Joe saved our lives? I think so. What’s a “hero?” Joe did his duty and he has always been a hero in my mind.

We returned fire against the unseen enemy so close to us but it was going nowhere. We took a couple of wounded from the small arms fire and then, like the hammers of hell, mortars came down on top of us and we had to pull back.

Just a few meters behind us, the squad leader, Cpl. Don Whittaker lay dead. It looked like he’d gone down in the first burst of fire that hit us. A raw-boned, serious guy from rural Missouri, he was 19. Whittaker was fairly new to our squad. I think he was filling in for our regular squad leader. I don’t remember Whittaker well, but Mac McNeely recalls speaking to him at some length and says he considered “Whit” a friend. He had been hit several times in the chest, abdomen and trunk. There’s no doubt in my mind that he died facing the enemy trying to do his job.

A third member of the squad died that day: Hospitalman Lloyd W. Moore, the corpsman, the “doc.” He was about a month shy of his 22nd birthday. No one from Bravo Company really remembers him. He joined 1/26 (H&S Co.) on 27 January and probably spent some time at the Battalion Aid Station. I don’t know when he joined Bravo Company and 1st Platoon. How could it be that nobody remembered him? I don’t know. It seems like we had a revolving door for corpsmen around that time, but still…

He was from Wilmington, N.C., where I have made my home for the past five years and I’ve learned a lot about him. First of all, nobody called him “Lloyd.” His father was L.W. Moore, a prominent citizen of the city and when his son was killed in action at Khe Sanh, it was front page news. So, the son was known as “Whit,” short for his middle name, or even “Spider.” His sister, his cousins, his friends, other corpsmen he served with in Rota, Spain, and other stops in his service history remember him well.

He liked to hunt and fish and he graduated high school from Carolina Military Academy. Like Cpl. Don Whittaker—the other “Whit” from our squad—he was religious but a corpsman buddy said he enjoyed going on liberty, too. Another corpsman buddy said he had a presentiment of death before he shipped out to Vietnam. We didn’t know him long enough to learn any of that.

As our squad came apart, he moved around to help the wounded until he was felled by mortar shrapnel that hit him in the base of the neck. A hero? It almost seems like Navy corpsman and hero are synonymous. A posthumous Bronze Star valor award recognized his actions. I recognized him from a picture sent to me by a local veteran who had researched all those from this area who had been killed in action from WWI through Vietnam.

As I opened the digital photograph attached to an email from the researcher, I instantly recognized the dead corpsman on that little piece of earth that seemed literally “God forsaken.” I didn’t know his name (except from the Vietnam Veterans Memorial and from Chaplain Stubbe’s research about Khe Sanh). I didn’t remember where he was from, or anything about him except his face and that he died doing his job.

“Lead” in my pack? The thought of that day and the almost unbelievable but irrevocable tragedy of the Ghost Patrol and our three dead from First Platoon has never been far from my consciousness in the 43 years since it happened.

Why was I spared? Why didn’t I do this? Why didn’t I do that? What would have happened if we had done this, if we hadn’t done that? Over and over.

Almost 30 years ago, I learned from reading a book that 25 February 1968 was a Sunday. Just like I didn’t know “Whit” Moore’s name or anything about him, I had no idea of the day of the week.

I was married, a father of two wonderful children, working in a very gratifying job helping fellow veterans. And, I was searching for answers, trying to learn how to make something other than crushing weight out of the lead in my pack. I was doing a lot of reading, thinking and talking about God and religion and I asked a priest if he could tell me what the readings were for that prosaically named “Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time.”

The second reading hit me like a bolt of lightening. It was St. Paul’s 1st Letter to the Corinthians, Chapter 15, verses 54 through 58:

And when this which is corruptible clothes itself with incorruptibility and this which is mortal clothes itself with immortality, then the word that is written shall come about:

“Death is swallowed up in victory.
Where, O death, is your victory?
Where, O death, is your sting?”

The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law.

But thanks be to God who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

Therefore, my beloved brothers, be firm, steadfast, always fully devoted to the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.We knew no victory on that field in 1968. There was death, and failure, and regret, loss and pain; the story of human life on earth compacted into a diamond of humbling memory. Yet, God was there, too, and He left His message of victory and redemption to be discovered in His word and in the example of the steadfast heroes of Bravo Company.

Bill Jayne enlisted in the Marine Corps for two years in September 1966. Originally from the Hudson Valley of New York state he went to boot camp at Parris Island and joined 1/26 on Hill 55 in early 1967. He was a rifleman, 0311, but found himself in H&S Company and then Bravo Company as a clerk. An insubordinate streak landed him in 1st Platoon of Bravo Company in October 1967. Patrol, patrol, patrol; Hill 950, Hill 881S, etc. After college he ended up in Washington, DC, working for a small magazine and then a big lobbying organization involved with heavy construction. A chance phone call in 1979 led to the opportunity to serve as an early volunteer on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund and then a career in the US Department of Veterans Affairs. He ran the National Cemetery Administration’s (NCA) State Cemetery Grants Program and later the Federal cemetery construction program. In his 20+ years with the NCA he had a role in the establishment of about 50 new cemeteries for veterans and their families, every one of them a “national shrine” to the memory of those who served in the military. He is now retired in Wilmington, NC.

43 years ago last Monday, the People’s Army of North Vietnam attacked and overran the US Army Special Forces camp at Lang Vei. Lang Vei was defended by 24 Americans, as well as detachments of South Vietnamese, Montagnard and Royal Laotian Army troops.

Lang Vei was located near the South Vietnamese-Laotian border about six miles west of where I, right then, stood watch along the Gray Sector perimeter at Khe Sanh. We had endured twelve days of rocket and mortar attacks since the siege of Khe Sanh began on the morning of 21 January 1968 and the attack on Lang Vei seemed, to me as I remember it now, a ramping up of action, a new punch in the nose from our enemy, the NVA (PAVN).

The night was foggy as I stood watch, and I don’t remember that specifically, that it was foggy, but I say that because it was always foggy at night. We got the word about the assault on Lang Vei through the whispered words of one man on watch to the next man. The word went around like a night creature in flight, changing form and function—messenger, harbinger, bringer of fright—as it flittered from bunker and fighting hole to bunker and fighting hole in and out of the thick mist. Growing larger, then smaller, depending on who was doing the whispering. Lang Vei is under attack. Lang Vei’s under attack.

During the night of 6 February and the dark morning hours of 7 February, the Khe Sanh combat base took a lot of incoming, often a round or two every few seconds, and the NVA, I suppose, intended to keep us in our bunkers and off Route 9 between our position and Lang Vei. We were on our faces in the trench when rounds came in, then on our feet, alertly watching into the mist because if the enemy was assaulting Lang Vei, they might assault us, too. Every Marine in our section of Gray Sector was on alert. The hidden red ends of burning Camels and Lucky Strikes, steaming cups of coffee and cocoa, our rifles locked and loaded, grenades lined up on the parapets to toss at Charlie when he rolled over the concertina and came at us with his screaming, fanatical attack, bayonets fixed on his AK-47s, ready for stabs and horizontal butt strokes to stomachs, chins and cheekbones.

Then the word “tank” flitted into the mix. “Tanks, they are hitting Lang Vei with tanks.”

All my memories of the Khe Sanh experience are tainted by time and by all that I’ve read and all that I have heard from other people who were and who were not at the siege. Yet, sieved out of those tainted memories, I see Lance Corporal “C” running from bunker to bunker, frantic whispers. “Tanks, the gooks have got tanks and they are overrunning Lang Vei right now. Hell, they might be done over there and on their way here.”

We had never faced the specter of hostile tanks and I remember in my mind the images of them rolling over the wire barriers to our front. I recollect the shock of it invaded the bottom of my spine, down at the pelvis, and snaked up my back. I shivered. I tried to hide it. I didn’t want anyone to know I shivered. Tanks.

Lance corporal “C” was a big man, bigger than most Marines who were small, tough kids tired of being pushed around a lot and joined the Corps to prove some things to themselves, and to others. “C” loved rumors, scuttlebutt. And he savored passing them on, one bunker to the next. He had begun his Nam stint with me in my squad back in March of ‘67 but somehow got himself moved up to Supply. Yet he never failed to show up and give us the word before the word was ever official. Whether the word had substance or not.

“C” must have had ears like fingers, good for plucking rumor out of the wind. And more than that, told it lasciviously. He’d hunch his large frame and get an impish look to his face, his big blue eyes darting left and right, left then right, then over his shoulder to see if Lieutenant “D” or Staff Sergeant “A” might come snooping down the trench line and catch him delivering forbidden goodies.
I remember my fright like the wings of miniature bats caught in my throat, their little claws scrabbling, intent on ripping through to the back of my neck. Tanks, and all that meant: crushed by steel tracks, blown apart by their cannons, the screams of elation of the NVA ground-pounders as they came in behind the tanks and caught us in crossfires as we tried to escape. Death…it was death, and it was coming at us on the rumbling engines of those tanks.

I remember, between dodging into the bunkers and hitting the muddy deck to avoid the whoosh, wham, zing of rockets, hearing the sound of those tank engines. Caught in the tiniest of breezes that moved the fog, the rumble and clank of those tanks….coming to get us.

And of course the sounds of those tanks I heard could have been nothing more than my imagination riled by the rumors that did, in fact, turn out to be true. Tanks did indeed overrun Lang Vei, although they did not show up to roll over the concertina wire around our position at the Khe Sanh combat base.

As the chaos of night battle amped up, we were ordered to saddle up and prepare to go save Lang Vei. But later, we stood down.

The next morning, the survivors of Lang Vei, showed up at the gates of Khe Sanh. The surviving Americans came in the gate and the indigenous people remained outside, confined in bomb craters and stripped of their weapons. I recall a lot of complaints back then—and probably there still are today—about how we, the Marines at Khe Sanh, didn’t go out and relieve those men at Lang Vei; and I have heard and read all the reasons why we didn’t. If they had ordered us to go save those men, we, the snuffies in the trench, would have dutifully gone to our probable demise. But we just sat and waited, all night, in the fog and mist as the rockets, mortars and artillery pounded us and we listened for the clank and rumble of those tanks.