Loon - Jack McLean [81]
On the second morning, we discovered an enemy tunnel inside the perimeter. It was not uncommon to find one, but the fact that it was inside our lines grabbed our immediate attention. It was said that an NVA soldier could go from the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos to Saigon and never see the light of day. This may have been an exaggeration, but perhaps not. The tunnel complex directly under LZ Loon that had been pointed out to me by Leeland Johnson upon my arrival on June 4 was later found to include a barracks and a medical station.
As was customary, one of the smallest marines was asked to volunteer for the task of going into the tunnel—to be the tunnel rat. I was six feet, three inches tall, though very skinny. Any time that tunnel rat volunteers were called for, I’d stand as tall as I was able and puff out my chest. Days before on LZ Loon, I’d provided the largest target there was to the enemy, and there wasn’t a second that I didn’t curse my parents for passing on the big-person gene. At this moment, though, I was a giant and did all that I could to see that everyone noticed. I had no interest in being a tunnel rat.
The volunteer was picked, and, after having a rifle sling tied around his leg, he was lowered into the abyss. It’s hard to describe how small the hole was or to imagine how any person could get in. Moments passed with little sound but some movement that we could detect. Those of us not on watch gathered closely around. Then, for several minutes, there was nothing.
A second marine, Dwayne Slate, who only weeks earlier had procured all of our new combat gear, was sent down. He spotted the first marine on the bottom, dead. We were never told his cause of death but assumed that it was from the lack of air in the tunnel.
Slate couldn’t breathe, so we pulled him up before he died.
It was an excruciating moment for all of us.
We had just suffered another casualty, and for what?
Some time later, a diminutive major from Alpha Company came over and, armed with ropes and appropriate gear, went back down into the hole and retrieved the dead, dirty, ashen-faced marine.
It was a numbly horrifying moment.
The poor fuck had survived LZ Loon and died in this little shit hole.
Bill Negron was distraught. An hour later, after it had sunk in, we saw him quietly crying with his head held in his hands.
It was an awful moment, a terrifyingly helpless moment.
That afternoon, a chaplain was sent out. It had originally been planned as a time of remembrance for the boys lost on LZ Loon, but the recent tragedy gave it new overtones. We all stood silently on the inside lip of a bomb crater with our heads bowed and listened to his comforting words. He led us in prayer. He handed out rosary beads and crosses to all who wanted them. I had never seen rosary beads before, but in the event that they might have some value, I kept them in my pocket for the balance of my tour. How could it hurt?
Later in the week, we went on a small operation about a thousand meters to the west. Walking through the tall grass and dense bush, the point man suddenly found himself face-to-face with two NVA soldiers. His MI6 at the ready, he shot and killed them both before either could react. Our nerves, already shot, sparked with the first sound of rifle fire since LZ Loon. We scouted the area, and determined that the two enemy troops were alone. Negron then called up to the point man and asked that the two bodies be brought to the perimeter that we were forming for the evening. Propping the bodies up next to a tree, he called the new replacements over for a quick lesson.
“Can you all see this? Come on, gather around closer and let me see a tight circle. Okay. You all see this now? This is what happens out here. This is serious business.”
Several new marines broke ranks and began to throw up. “You are all going to be here for thirteen months, if you are lucky. You