Loon - Jack McLean [83]
“Doc,” I began. “Doc, you lost your thumb during the rocket attack on LZ Loon.”
“Right,” came the simple response, wondering where I was going with this.
“Doc, did you, like, lose it right there, or did they take it off later?”
“No. In the rear. They took it off in Dong Ha, I think. The hand was a mess, but they couldn’t save the thumb. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I quietly responded. “No reason. I’m just glad you’re alive.”
“No shit, Jack. Me too.”
And so the conversation ended.
The choppers came back a few minutes later, and, with little fanfare, we loaded the body bags, boarded, and headed three minutes back to LZ Robin. Looking down, it was not lost on me that the last time we had all been together in the air, the five dead boys at my feet had been sitting across the aisle ready to go into battle, not prone on the deck ready to go home. We were fortunate. Although we wouldn’t know how fortunate until the following morning. The 2nd Battalion, 9th Marines, which had been holding lines while we retrieved the bodies, began getting hit with the artillery from Co Roc as soon as we left. They took twelve incoming rounds and a number of casualties before they too were able to get evacuated.
My head was pounding by the time we got back to Robin. The smell—the rotting flesh, the cordite, the sulfur—was all too much to endure. Our hands and clothes were covered with the blood and innards of the bodies. Wipe your nose once, and the smell would stay for days. The only water on Robin Alpha was in our canteens. We tried to wash the stink off, but it was impossible. Throughout the balance of the afternoon, marines would find quiet spots just outside the lines and vomit.
We were tired—exhausted. Our nerves were like crystal and we stank to high heaven. Bill Negron did his best to keep our morale up, but it was a near-impossible challenge. The rumors of a float phase continued, as did rumors of just going back to Dong Ha for a few weeks to regroup. The season had instantly changed to summer and it was now unbearably hot. Our daily bath consisted of removing our olive T-shirt, wiping the sweat from our bodies, and putting it back on. Sweaty as we were, it was an effective way to get the dirt off. We had worn the same boots, pants, T-shirts, and socks since we’d left the Washout three weeks earlier.
The following morning we watched with unbridled joy as Alpha Company was lifted off of LZ Robin. We gathered our gear and headed down into the ravine and back up the hill for the last time to take over the lines. It was heaven. No more walking back and forth for supplies, and there was a large water tank that was the next best thing to a hot bath, as far as we were concerned. The only downside was that it was noisy. The big 105 mm howitzers fired all day and all night long, shaking the ground and splitting our ears. The hilltop was so small that there was no place to get away from them.
For the next seven days, we manned our lines, ate our C rations, read our daily mail, cleaned our rifles, and sent out patrols during the day and ambushes and listening posts during the night. We’d make occasional contact, but we were becoming increasingly numb to the NVA presence. We were just doing our jobs and watching out for one another.
Some big brass flew in one day, including General Henry W Buse, the new commanding general of the Fleet Marine Force, Pacific (FMFPac), which meant he was in charge of all marines in the Pacific (including us). His headquarters were in Hawaii, so he was a long way from home. He awarded several well-deserved Bronze Stars for action on LZ Loon.
We later joked that he probably got a Silver Star just for coming out to our little hill.
We left Robin about a week later, abandoning the position. We set fire to and blew up all that was in our wake so