In 1967, I was a Navy hospital corpsman assigned to Charlie Company, 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, 1st Marine Division. We initially were based at Chu Lai and later at Da Nang, Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam). A Navy corpsman’s job is to save lives, and I was honored to serve with the Marines. They called me “Doc.”
Recon’s main function was to pinpoint the locations of Viet Cong (VC) and North Vietnamese Army (NVA) troops in strongholds near us. We patrolled in small teams of usually 10 to 12 men. Because we would be on patrol for four to seven days, we traveled light and wore no flak jackets or helmets.
The night before one patrol in May 1967, Sergeant Rosas, who would lead the mission, was briefed that an NVA division had been spotted approximately 20 miles southwest of Da Nang in an area we called Charlie Ridge. Our probability of enemy contact was high—Charlie Ridge was a staging area for the NVA to harass Marine units.
The monsoon rains were ending. I welcomed the relief from the constant downpours, but the heat and humidity felt like we were living in a sauna. On patrol, I carried eight to ten canteens of water, a little food, and an M14 rifle and .45-caliber pistol for protection and support of my platoon. I packed as much ammunition as I could. Better to be safe than sorry.
Just as the sun started to show its face on 2 May, I grabbed my gear and headed for the unit’s landing zone (LZ) on Hill 327. Like the Marines, I put my gear on the ground and checked for everything I needed to carry with me. There wasn’t much small talk; we were all thinking about what lay ahead.
As we waited for the helicopters to pick us up, Sergeant Rosas talked with Private First Class Turk, the radio operator, and had him do a radio check with base command. The 1st Battalion’s Sergeant Major Davis made a point to speak to each of us, giving encouragement.
“Doc, how ya doing?”
“Good, Sergeant Major. Ready to get this going.”
“You take care. See you when you get back.”
Around Hill 327 came two CH-46 helicopters. I liked to go on patrol in these large birds because there was enough room to stretch out. The choppers hovered over our LZ kicking up dust. We covered our faces and turned our backs to shield our weapons. The birds settled, and the rear ramps lowered. I followed Sergeant Rosas into the first helicopter. The rest of our patrol saddled up and boarded. The engines increased revolutions, and the birds lifted off and turned. We were airborne, heading for our insertion site.
Twenty minutes later, we were circling the Charlie Ridge LZ. Helicopter gunships and F-4 Phantom jets circled our position, making sure we weren’t dropping into an ambush. The CH-46s landed with a thump on the short-stalked elephant grass. We exited, took up defensive positions, and then moved out. Soon we were cutting our own trail through the thick brush beneath a jungle canopy high above us.
As we sliced our way up a hill, we intersected a trail that seemed well used. Sergeant Rosas stopped us and whispered, “We’re not following this trail.” The path had no vegetation growing on it—an enemy trail. We needed to stay off it.
“I want to set up an ambush,” the sergeant said in hushed tones. “We might be able to get some gooks.”
He motioned to Private First Class Narron, Lance Corporal Simcox, Corporal O’Connell, and me. “I want you four to set up an ambush. Y’all are my most senior guys out here. Spread out up and down the trail.”
“Sarge, where will you be?” asked O’Connell.
“We won’t be far off. If you have to leave this location, use your compass. We’ll be no more than a few hundred yards away. Set a bearing for south-southeast. But we’ll be back to pick you up if you don’t find us.”
The enemy trail wound up through the jungle and disappeared into the trees. I settled in thick underbrush behind a tree, facing down the trail. The three Marines took up positions below me. Narron had an M60 machine gun pointing up the trail. From where I sat, I couldn’t see the rest of the ambush team.
It was quiet. Owls, woodpeckers, and crickets made the only sounds. As I sat there, I thought about home and how much I missed seeing my folks, praying the day would come when I would ship home. I had been in the bush 11 months and had at least another month before my rotation date. During the last 30 days of their tours, Marines would get careless. The future captured their attention—girlfriends, cars, jobs . . .
I glanced over my shoulder up the trail. Standing no more than ten feet from me were two VC. The only thing separating us was a large oak tree. My heart went into panic mode and beat so fast I was sure the two VC could hear it.
My rifle’s safety was on, and I was facing downhill, as were the VC. If they saw me, they would have the drop on me. I maneuvered my rifle around and clicked off the safety. To me, the sound was like a hammer hitting a drum.
The two VC took off back up the trail. Narron yelled, “C’mon, Doc, let’s get out of here!” I ran down the hill jumping over brush, dead logs, and anthills.
“Doc, I had a bead on them with the 60, but I didn’t know where you were,” Narron said. I had been so close to the VC I could’ve shaken hands with them. I was thankful Narron hadn’t opened up.
It was easy for us to find the others—we practically ran into them. I told Sergeant Rosas what had happened.
“Let’s move out,” Sarge said. “This is not where we need to be.”
We headed out again, this time away from where we’d seen the VC.
We continued patrolling for two more days without encountering any more VC. We kept moving, cutting our own trail and staying away from well-worn paths. The VC and NVA operated in stealth mode. I’d heard from other combat veterans that the NVA would spend hours crawling up on a Marine position to ensure surprise.
Late on the morning of our third day on Charlie Ridge, Sarge held us up and motioned for everyone to get down. He eye-motioned for us to watch our flanks. I didn’t know what was going on until Corporal Simcox whispered that we’d come across a hooch—a hut. It was loaded with rice and what appeared to be rifle boxes with Chinese writing.
Sarge immediately radioed our find back to base camp at Da Nang, noting that there was probably a ton of rice in the hooch. The NVA would extort rice crops from the South Vietnamese peasants, who had no choice but to give it to them. The peasants would farm all year and lose everything.
Base camp told Rosas that a reactionary force would be sent out to blow up the rice. A reactionary force usually consisted of a company of 80 Marines. Loaded with enough ammunition to handle any unforeseen situation, they would land at the nearest LZ, which was probably at least a mile away. What would happen now? We had no idea where the VC or NVA were. They might be watching us.
We settled in, using the hooch as our command bunker. Sarge and Turk, the radioman, hunkered down with the rice. Claymore mines, white-phosphorous grenades, and trip flares were set up around our position. I took one of the perimeter watches with Corporal Liggett.
It was a long, quiet night.
At first light, everyone was up. I checked my weapon. I heard Sarge on the radio. The reactionary force—Company K, 3d Battalion, 7th Marines—was slated to be on the ground at approximately 1130 hours.
The temperature was climbing. I was down to five canteens already. On days like that day, the heat and humidity would raise my anxiety. I was sure the others in my platoon were feeling the same uneasiness. Here we were, trying to protect something that didn’t belong to us. I reached for my canteen and poured water on my head to cool off.
We would end up waiting all that day and the following night for the reactionary force’s arrival. At 0730 on our fifth day on Charlie Ridge, Turk handed the radio to Sarge, who passed word that the reactionary force was about 400 yards off. Sarge sent out two small patrols to make contact with the force. I was ecstatic. But my hope to chopper out that day wouldn’t be fulfilled.
One of the patrols found the reactionary force, but its arrival at our location was delayed when the unit stumbled across a cluster of 20 huts, possibly a training complex.
It was 1130 on 8 May when the force finally approached us. The company of grunts walked into our position, and its lieutenant shook hands with Sergeant Rosas. Sarge went over the details of what had happened. The lieutenant barked orders to his men to fan out around the rice cache. I could tell these guys were tired from humping hills to find us. They were heavily armed, even bringing a three-man mortar team with them. Unlike our Recon platoon, these guys wore helmets and flak jackets.
I stayed close to Sergeant Rosas. The lieutenant had his guys wire up explosives to blow the hooch. The next thing I heard was “Fire in the hole!”
The enemy surely heard the explosion. In the jungle, sound carries, and a sound that loud would be heard for miles.
At 1230, the lieutenant talked with Sergeant Rosas, who told everyone in Recon to get ready to move out. We gathered our gear and started up the trail. The lieutenant would provide rear security. Recon took point. Instead of making our own trail, as we had earlier, Sarge had us walk the well-used trail. I heard him tell the lieutenant that no one would mess with more than 80 of us. Simcox took point. Sarge was next, then Turk, Liggett, and me, followed by the rest of Recon.
This part of the jungle was thick with ferns and other kinds of plants that would make it difficult to spot an enemy ambush. As we moved up the trail, the last Marine of the reactionary force, who was providing security, stopped Sergeant Rosas.
“Sarge, be careful walking up that trail. We thought we heard something.”
“They would be crazy to try something with all of us,” Sarge answered, showing a big smile.
We’d walked no more than 50 feet when at least three automatic weapons opened up on us. We hit the ground.
“Doc, Sarge is hit!” Simcox yelled.
I crawled to Sarge. Automatic fire was coming from different positions. I didn’t know how serious Sarge was wounded until I saw his face. That’s when I was hit in the leg.
The Marines taking up our rear immediately fanned out into defensive positions. We had no way of knowing how many VC had ambushed us. I heard yelling in Vietnamese not more than 15 feet away.
I couldn’t do much for Rosas. He’d had been shot twice in the face. He lay there with a blank stare, and each breath brought a fountain of blood from his head. He was unresponsive, and I heard a gurgling in his chest. I felt his pulse. It was very weak. Then his breathing stopped. I worked my way back to Liggett, who’d been walking in front of me. His face was buried in the dirt. I turned him on his side. He had a gunshot wound to the head. He had died instantly.
Durand Liggett. He was my friend. He’d slept on a cot right next to mine. We’d spent many nights talking about what we would do when we got home. But I didn’t have time to dwell on Liggett and Sarge. I had the safety of those still alive to think about.
I snaked back to Sergeant Rosas, removed his gear, and covered him with his poncho. I did the same for Liggett. Being friends with another guy in Vietnam was bad. You never knew if your buddy might be dead the next day.
The lieutenant came up and asked how I was doing. We had two other wounded guys I needed to attend to. After giving them aid and seeing that their wounds were no more serious than mine, I checked my medical bag and counted my battle dressings and morphine injections.
The lieutenant came back and told me he’d called for a medevac for Liggett and Rosas and to have the wounded removed from the bush.
There was still sporadic gunfire all around us. The VC probably had left the immediate area, but the Marines weren’t taking any chances and had formed a tight perimeter. I went around to see how each man in my platoon was doing. Their faces told the story. They were glad it wasn’t them underneath those two ponchos.
It was late afternoon before I heard the Huey gunships above us. That meant the medevac was just minutes away, but there was nowhere to land a helicopter. The lieutenant told us that those of us who were wounded would be winched up through the trees. I looked up. The canopy rose to at least a hundred feet above us.
The gunships flew in and out of our position looking for any VC or NVA. Every few seconds, I heard M60 machine-gun fire from the Hueys as they secured the area. The lieutenant popped a yellow smoke grenade so the medevac could get our exact position.
As the smoke filtered up through the trees, a large Air Force search-and-rescue helicopter flew in and hovered right over us. The wump, wump, wump of the helicopter blades drowned out all communication on the ground. The lieutenant signaled to the wounded to stand by.
The winch was lowered. Simcox was first. His and Private First Class Wiechens’ wounds were not life-threatening. A Marine helped place the harness under Simcox’s arms. The winch pulled him up, but the helicopter was having trouble maintaining its position. Next was Wiechens, then me. I placed the harness under my arms and gave a thumbs-up to the crew chief. As I cleared the trees, I looked around, praying I wouldn’t be a target of NVA sniper fire. The crew chief pulled me into the chopper and motioned me to move to the rear. I crawled back while the pilot up front tried to keep the big bird stationary. Simcox, Wiechens, and I felt helpless. I kept looking out the bird’s little oval windows. The gunships were still flying around us, and off in the distance two F-4 Phantoms provided additional security.
The bodies of Liggett and Rosas were pulled up. They had been placed in body bags.
I looked at my watch. Before long, it would be dark. I felt like I was abandoning my platoon. After our chopper left, they would be humping out of the jungle to get to an LZ. It had been the lieutenant’s call for me to be medevaced. I was hit in the leg but was able to stop my own bleeding. My wound wasn’t serious.
The helicopter pilot was doing his best to avoid the trees, but suddenly, I saw the large blades hit some top branches. The chopper lost all power and tilted on its side. I hung on to keep from falling out the side door. Chunks of blades flew off in all directions. The helicopter pitched and yawed and started to roll end-over-end toward the ground. I could hear guys screaming. I prayed none of us would be crushed under its weight.
After we hit the ground, I thought the chopper was going to explode. Fuel was leaking everywhere. We were all dazed. Those who could, scrambled to get out of the helicopter. Then I saw that the crew chief was pinned in the wreckage, screaming for help. Still dazed, I worked my way over to him and tried to lift the sidebar holding him down. He kept yelling as he and I both tried to free him. The roar of the engines stopped. Marines climbed into the wreckage to help us. I got out of their way as the crew chief was finally freed. I crawled out and sat down by myself next to a piece of the wreckage and tried to reason through what had just happened.
We were still getting sniper fire. The crew of the downed helicopter grabbed personal belongings and weapons. It was a miracle that no additional men had been killed.
At 1730, another medevac came on station to attempt another extraction. Again, a winch was lowered, then all of a sudden, the large helicopter’s engine whine increased. The winch was retracted, and the chopper left. The M60 machine guns on circling gunships opened up on the nearby ridgeline. Our relatively safe haven again was under attack, but from where? A radio operator told the lieutenant that the crew chief in the medevac had been hit by sniper fire, and the helicopter left to take the wounded man to the naval hospital in Da Nang.
We were out of luck for the second time and sitting ducks surrounded by an enemy force that greatly outnumbered us. We could do nothing. Even though the NVA were taking a pounding from our gunships, they were still harassing us.
At 1900, another medevac, a CH-53 Marine helicopter, attempted a third time to extract us. But it, too, was shot up and had to return to Da Nang. There would be no more extractions that day. Another night of uncertainty. What could possibly happen next? Would we ever be able to leave this nightmare?
The night was filled with anxiety, but at least it was quiet. At daylight, the lieutenant got right back on the radio. I could see his frustration—he wanted his men out of here before any of them became casualties.
“They’ll have another chopper here in an hour.”
The wait added to our stress. Apprehension filled the faces of the Recon Marines. We’d been in the bush seven days and missed our scheduled extraction date.
Two hours had passed when I heard the gunships arriving for the fourth time. Would this be the last attempt? My stress peaked. I’d have to be hauled up on the winch again along with the others.
At 0800, a big CH-46 appeared overhead. I could make out the crewmen manning .50-caliber machine guns, then saw the winch being lowered. It would be Simcox, Wiechens, and me on the winch. Then the bodies of Liggett and Rosas.
Simcox and Wiechens went up without a hitch. Then it was my turn. I signaled the crew chief to pull me up. As I approached the door of the helicopter, I became wary of where I was. I clearly could see the gunship pilots as they circled our helicopter. They watched me as I grabbed the skid at the bottom of the side door and pulled myself in with the crew chief’s help. Again, I was motioned away from the door as the winch dropped to haul up the bodies of the two Marines.
Liggett’s body was first, then Rosas’. Both died so young. I knew Durand Liggett wasn’t married, but I wasn’t sure about Jose Rosas. Receiving news of their deaths by military officers showing up at their homes would devastate their families. Both were courageous men who had my respect.
I lay on the floor of the helicopter thinking. I had supported this war when I first arrived in Vietnam, but seeing grisly deaths had seared my soul. So many Americans were dying, and there was so little support for us at home. Was the war worth the cost? A Marine officer in the helicopter saw my distress and came over to me. “Everything’s going to be all right.” He put his hand on my shoulder. I was calm again.
The chopper headed away from Charlie Ridge. I’d thought getting out of there wasn’t in the cards. I’d left my platoon in the bush, unsure of their fate. They would all have to walk out to an LZ to be extracted.
The three of us were taken to the Naval Support Activity Hospital at Da Nang. I was triaged to an ambulatory ward and treated for a gunshot wound to the left leg and shrapnel from a grenade.
The next day, I had two visitors: Sergeant Major Davis and our battalion commander, Major Bill Lowrey. After I told them what happened, I saw Sergeant Major Davis was glad I was okay. Major Lowrey asked how Liggett and Rosas had died. I later described the helicopter crash and the attempted medevacs.
“That was one heck of an outing for all of you,” said Davis. “Is there anything Major Lowrey and I can do for you?”
I looked at both of them. “Sergeant Major, I’ve been in the field for almost a year. I’ve only missed a couple of patrols in all that time. I don’t want to go out anymore. I’ve had enough.”
“Don’t worry, Doc,” Sergeant Major Davis said, “you won’t have to go out anymore.”
They both thanked me for the job I’d done and said they would see me back at camp. I told them I was grateful for everything.
As they were leaving, I thought back to when I first had arrived in-country. I was so new then. It seemed like years ago. I never thought I would hear those words, “You won’t have to go out anymore.”
I knew then that my tour of duty in Vietnam was coming to an end. I’d never forget Charlie Ridge. I had come to Vietnam as a young, inexperienced Navy corpsman, and I was leaving with mental scars far worse than my physical wounds. They clouded my mind and made me see how quickly life could be extinguished.
I thanked God that I was still alive, but the goblins and ghosts of combat will be with me the rest of my life.