Death Valley_ The Summer Offensive, I Corps, August 1969 - Keith Nolan [40]
Two dead North Vietnamese soldiers were inside. Lowery suddenly noticed the whole battlefield was quieting.
Between Charlie and Delta, the NVA had been broken up. Lieutenant Hord was crouched with his radio when he saw Delta Company approaching through the trees in a disciplined line, weapons in the assault position. There were only two platoons, but they looked like a thousand Marines to him. The survivors around him began shouting in wild elation that it was over, that they were still alive—that they had won!
The two companies consolidated what they had, then swept through the tree line end to end, reconning by fire, fragging each and every bunker, using Chicoms when they ran out of U.S. grenades. There was little, if any, resistance. The NVA retreat was complete. It was then that Charlie Company’s reserve platoon came in. They didn’t know what to expect, so they quickly measured their ammo, fixed bayonets because they didn’t have enough, then charged. It was anticlimactic.
Lance Corporal Bradley paused at the first trench to look at the spot where he and the other Marine had fired. A North Vietnamese was slumped with his back against the earthen trench wall and an AK47 beside him. A small hole was in his forehead and the back of his head was blown out. Another dead NVA was sprawled beside him in the slit trench.
Got you!
After what they had been through, it felt great. Lieutenant Hord could see the exhilaration on every face. For weeks—months—they had sweated and kicked booby traps. This was their reward. A life experience, he thought, flooding with emotions. They had taken on the North Vietnamese Army on their terms, and they had emerged victorious. The jungle floor was literally smoking. Marines foraged through it, laughing, taking photographs, picking up souvenirs, inspecting the bodies. There were stacks of equipment left behind: rifles, grenade launchers, mortars, stick grenades, radios, ammunition, packs, web gear, dozens of bicycles used for transportation. They even found an old bathtub with claw legs, which they imagined the NVA regimental commander had used.
By dusk, Charlie and Delta Companies were humping back towards the Hot Dog. Lieutenant Hord walked in front of his column, suddenly aware of the heat and his own fatigue, but still swimming in the victory. He was a regular officer, the son of a career sergeant, and he had literally demanded infantry duty. This is what he’d always wanted. It had been as perfect as combat could get. Dowd, whom he greatly respected, had orchestrated a classic attack. His Marines had carried it out with stunning courage. And Fagan, his Basic School instructor, had rounded it out, coming in like the cavalry. He looked at his Marines, filthy and quiet as they trudged up the hill. They weren’t trained to freeze when a booby trap exploded on a trail; they’d been trained to close with and kill the enemy. And they’d done it. They were warriors, Hord thought; morale was higher than it ever had been or would be, and it was the proudest moment of his life.
Lieutenant Colonel Dowd greeted them on the hill.
He was beaming and they shook hands, congratulating each other. If we could pop champagne, Hord thought, we would.
The battalion staff and company commanders held their meeting. Spirits were still running high, and Dowd had to take control so they would address the present situation. Even from their vantage point on the Hot Dog, no one