Loon - Jack McLean [44]
I had yet to see the enemy, but I knew that I was getting my first taste of combat. Feelings of fear, excitement, and anticipation overwhelmed me. Yet the fear dissipated as the training and adrenaline took over. I wanted a piece of the little motherfuckers, but remained relegated to backup duty in my bomb crater.
The word then was passed that a radar-controlled bomb would be dropped just outside the lines to keep the NVA from overrunning us again. A radar-controlled bomb? This was not a weapon that we had learned about in training. The five-hundred-pound bomb was to be dropped from an A-6 jet in about five minutes. We would be given fair warning to be safe in our holes.
“Bombs away, thirty seconds!” came the initial call. There was not a sound from the air.
“Bombs away, ten seconds.”
We could now hear the jet approaching, and then became aware of an increasing screaming roar from directly above.
Then it landed.
The impact ignited the night sky with an apocalyptic light. The ground beneath us shook ferociously, red-hot shrapnel flew like tracer rounds through the night blackness, and trip flares and claymore mines were set off by the concussion that exploded all around the perimeter.
Chaos was followed by horror.
The bomb had been dropped right on top of our lines.
The next sound, immediately after the explosion, was that of enormous pieces of shrapnel roaring inches over our heads and thumping deep into the mud on the far side of the crater. This was followed by the sound of what seemed to be heavy rain overhead. Seconds later, we realized that the sound was not rain but thousands of tiny pieces of shrapnel flying through the tree leaves, instantly denuding all that was in their path.
Dan and I remained frozen until we caught sight of several marines hauling five body-laden ponchos to the LZ (landing zone) for evacuation. One whole section of the Delta Company perimeter had been vaporized. As reserve forces, we moved quickly to cover the gaps in the line.
In two hours, we’d experienced a crashed helicopter, a friendly bomb, and countless casualties. Terry Tillery, still huddled with his fire team, felt himself starting to give up. He curled up, pulled his poncho tightly around himself, and quietly muttered, “Fuck it.”
What could we do?
What were we gonna do?
It was bad enough that gooks were killing us.
Now we were killing ourselves.
Total confusion.
This was not a good place to be.
Despite its deadly effect on us, the bomb had succeeded in driving the enemy back, for the moment. Tillery emerged from his cocoon, Burton and I rose from the bomb crater that had become our home, and we all looked with disbelief at the battlefield around us.
The helicopter was still smoldering and the trees around the bomb impact either were gone or had been completely defoliated by the shrapnel. Our fellow marines were walking around with dazed what-the-hell-happened looks.
The word was passed to gather up our gear.
We were moving out, ASAP.
Gratefully, we packed up our gear, called in medevacs to take out the dead and wounded, and trudged two thousand meters back across the Trace to a position near Gio Linh, on the easternmost edge of the DMZ.
Within the relative security of the new location, I was able to write home.
Vietnam
December 8, 1967
Dear home,
Right now I’m sitting on the ground writing this on an empty C ration box. It’s 4 P.M. and cold and bleak. The rain has let up for the moment, but the weather doesn’t look good. Due to the casualties, we all have a bit more gear and more food, but none of us will ever be the same.
Please write if you get a chance—mail doesn’t come often, but it’s such a boost when it does. Don’t worry about me; I am confident that I’ll be all right. I’m sorry this can’t be longer, but there