Loon - Jack McLean [66]
Harvard was a universe away and would remain so for the next six weeks.
22
LATE ON THE AFTERNOON OF JUNE 4, 1968, WE heard the faraway sound of multiple rotors and knew that our moment had come. Without a command or a single word, the one hundred eighty boys of Charlie Company rose to their feet. The only sound was that of groaning packs and straps. We readjusted to the standing position. Although choppers had been flying in and out of Camp Carroll all day, they normally came in ones and twos, bringing supplies and mail from the rear, and the wounded and the dead from the front.
This was different.
First came the familiar sound of one rotor, then two. Within an instant the air was filled with a dozen well-spaced CH-46 combat helicopters. To the ear, it was a single near-deafening noise as they lowered themselves to us.
“Charlie Company, 1st Squad, 2nd Platoon, I want two fire teams in that first chopper with me. Tillery, Camacho, Rodriguez—let’s go.
“Move.”
“Move.”
“Move.”
There was a smooth urgency to Bill Negron’s voice that both calmed us and told us that this was it. As the first chopper settled down, its rear ramp lowered to accept our command group. Negron always made it a point to be the first person in the first chopper going into battle and the last person in the last chopper going out.
Always.
Within minutes, one by one, all twelve choppers had landed and scooped up an entire reinforced company of United States Marines who were headed to the last place on earth that many would ever see.
Those who did return would never be the same.
It was a prophetic beginning for the freshly minted offensive strategy of General Ray Davis. No more Dien Bien Phus. We were going after them where they lived. On this day, that meant west into the mountainous highlands that formed the corner of Laos, North Vietnam, and South Vietnam.
This would be the first hot landing that most of us had experienced.
We knew that the choppers would come under fire as soon as we were within rifle range, and that each of us would have rifles aimed at our heads the moment we disembarked. This was it—just like in the movies, except this wasn’t a movie. As Staff Sergeant Hilton used to say, “This is as real as a hand grenade.”
When our turn came to board, twelve of us ran up the ramp. We seated ourselves against the bulkheads across from one another on nylon mesh seats that were caked with the dried blood of previous missions. The crew chief and door machine gunner were eager to go. Chopper crews rarely were happy on the ground. The landing zone was hot. They needed us to bail out the instant the rear ramp was down.
After only seconds, the bird lifted and banked hard to starboard. Incredibly, I remained detached from what lay beyond. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was shining and the air was cool. We were well fed and rested. The countryside, from what I could see through the broken portal across the cabin, was lovely, green and lush. It might well have been New Hampshire on a June afternoon. Soon, though, emerging into view from the same portal came an otherworldly landscape, one that belonged on the surface of the moon. There were craters upon craters with no life, human or vegetative. The absence of vegetation had become a common sight along the demilitarized zone between North and South Vietnam because the region had been so thoroughly saturated with Agent Orange. Nothing could grow there even if it wanted to.
But the craters?
This was Khe Sanh.
America’s Dien Bien Phu.
For as far as the eye could see, there spread before us cratered red earth. Some craters from the B-52 bombs were large enough to hold lakes, filled by the spring rains. The afternoon light glistened in the silver gleam as I watched the flashing shadow of our helicopter dart across the landscape.
Khe Sanh.
Five months earlier, on January 6, 1968, General William Westmoreland had initiated Operation Niagara to find enemy units