Death Valley_ The Summer Offensive, I Corps, August 1969 - Keith Nolan [42]
It made the right impression on everyone.
Not surprisingly, Codispoti and Dowd hit it off well and the regimental commander always smiled on 1st Battalion. The company commanders of 1/7 respectfully likened him to Vince Lombardi and referred to him as Coach Codispoti or the Bear. He was not a grandstander. He’d choppered in to see how his Marines were faring, and to be on hand to provide any outside support that might be needed.
It was still Dowd’s ball game, and they moved out as the boiling sun rose. The first skirmish line was formed with D/1/7 on the left, then C/1/7, I/3/5, and L/3/7 on the right. The CP entourage followed Delta Company. The rest of the battalion followed in a second line. The hastily sketched plan was to sweep south from the Hot Dog, then east through the bombed-out tree line. On the other side, they were to pivot north and continue until their hammer met A/1/7’s anvil on the banks of the Vu Gia. The artillery batteries at An Hoa and Hill 65 had their tubes up, and Broncos were on station overhead to direct the support fire.
At first, the battalion was like a hound against its leash. They kept stumbling into things in the tree lines—dropped gear, blood trails, an occasional NVA body—and the forward observers with the point platoons reconned each wood line with arty and mortars before the line swept in. They met only token resistance; the NVA were running north. Lieutenant Hord was stunned. He thought they’d kicked ass the day before and didn’t expect any resistance today, but the aviation net on his radio was alive with excited Bronco pilots. “They’re runnin’ all over the place, there’s gooks everywhere!” The NVA were breaking up into small groups, but the pilots kept the artillery on them. That was the view from the air. At ground level, it was not so well-defined. Although four Marine rifle companies were spread out on a line stretching for a kilometer, it was not like walking the parade deck. The intersecting tree lines and paddy dikes blocked the view and the enemy was invisible, pausing only to snipe and run. Most men just trudged along, dripping sweat under helmet, flak jacket, and pack; not firing a shot because no targets were visible; and taking some satisfaction in the abandoned NVA packs and ammunition bandoliers dotting their route.
The line finally paused in a tree line facing a large paddy. It was several hundred meters across, as flat and open as a pool table, and the artillery was processed into the opposite tree line. Battalion passed word to continue the sweep. Captain Fagan was wary: the paddy seemed a perfect ambush spot. It would have been wiser first to secure the flanks of the opposite tree line and clear it before walking right into the open. We’re in too much of a hurry, he thought. As the men resumed their advance, Fagan glanced to his right; for hundreds of yards, he could see hundreds of Marines materializing from the woods into the sun-blasted and wide-open rice field.
India Company was in the center of the line as it advanced, and Captain Beeler also had a headful of worries. For one thing, his men were exhausted. They’d spent the last three weeks humping the mountains and had returned to the An Hoa Combat Base only the day before; within hours, they were on the move again, this time into the Arizona. Additionally, Beeler didn’t know his platoon leaders: his only two experienced officers had to remain at An Hoa, one taking over the exec slot, the other assigned as pay officer. Consequently, 1st and 3d Platoons had untested second lieutenants. 2d Platoon had a career staff sergeant, but Beeler was wary