Death Valley_ The Summer Offensive, I Corps, August 1969 - Keith Nolan [38]
Hord watched a Phantom roll in on the trench line and release its bombs. He pressed behind the dike as the explosion rocked the ground and slashed the air with whizzing chunks of hot metal; then he quickly peeked back up as the jet pulled out. An NVA stood up in the trench, firing his AK at the departing Phantom. That was a beautiful air strike; Hord almost screamed, why are you still alive?
Lieutenant Hord radioed battalion, “Youth Six, this is Charlie Six. If we can get going now, I think we best because I’m sure we’re just going to lose some more men sitting here.”
Lieutenant Colonel Dowd okayed the frontal assault.
Hord keyed the company radio. He told the reserve platoon to lift their fires in two minutes as the two lead platoons made their rush. Then he got his squad leaders on the horn: fix bayonets, we’re charging in one minute; a green-star cluster flare will be the signal. Around him, grunts who still had bayonets began fixing them to M14 and M16 rifles. Hord was moving on a combination of training and terror.
He pulled the flare from his web gear.
The line erupted—guttural yells over the cacophony, the cracks of passing bullets. The men ran crouched, engulfed in smoke and noise. It was a slow-motion nightmare, but this time running into a real live monster.
In seconds, the company was on the trench line. Hord bounded into it, terrified, trying to get out of the fire, almost landing on a North Vietnamese soldier. The man was slumped motionless against the trench wall with what looked like a dagger in his forehead. Hord looked closer. It was a large chunk of shrapnel. God, he thought, this is surreal, like a corpse springing from its grave. The whole world was erupting around him. The NVA were rushing back deeper into the woods, except for a few stragglers or diehards. A bunker opened fire from a slight rise amid the trees, and Hord saw one of his Marines charge right at it. The kid was shirtless, had three or four grenades cradled in his arm like footballs, and he sprinted up to the bunker, pitching them overhand, underhand, lobbing them into the opening. He dove as they exploded, then instantly sprang to his feet and lunged to the opening, firing his M16 into the bunker.
The assault continued on its own momentum. Hord scrambled from the trench with his .45 still in its holster, and carrying an M16 taken from a casualty. He never fired the rifle; the radio was his tool. He walked in a crouch down the general skirmish line of his two platoons, pausing every few yards to kneel and get his bearings. Around him, Marines were hurling grenades, screaming, changing magazines. Twenty feet away, he could see NVA ducking among the trees. Hord had never seen anything like it, was too scared to be afraid. He was amazed that the North Vietnamese seemed to be looking right at his radio but none paused to shoot. Dead NVA lay at his feet, bark and leaves blasted onto them.
The NVA disappeared into a second slit trench in the woods, and their firing grew more intense. Hord had one thought stronger than all others: will I live?
Then Delta Company swept in from the right flank.
Delta Company had been pinned in the fringes of the trees, taking heavy casualties. The situation was intolerable. Captain Fagan finally left his command group back with the reserve platoon and worked his way up to the point of contact with Gunnery Sergeant Richards and Lance Corporal Nelson. First they walked in a crouch, then on all fours, and finally they crawled when they noticed everyone else was down. Fagan could see dead Marines, four or five of them, and a dozen wounded sprawled around the farthest point. A young