score a spectacular victory by splitting the republic in two from the coastal city of Qui Nhon west to the Cambodian border. Failing in this, allied intelligence feared that rather than abort his plan, the general might look elsewhere to sever the country, perhaps where the country was narrower and where no U.S. forces were stationed.
By late November or early December, intelligence sources reported the North Vietnamese might well have found such a place in Quang Ngai Province.
A military situation map of Vietnam in early 1965 would show that on a direct line running west from the coastal city of Quang Ngai across the country to the Laotian border, there were only two friendly outposts: an ARVN infantry battalion at Ba Gia, located between us and Quang Ngai, and our camp at Ha Thanh. But by the fall of that year, Ba Gia was no more. It had been overrun, literally eradicated in a predawn attack months before. And that was somewhat frightening, since it had been defended by an entire battalion reinforced with two 105-mm howitzers—both of which might now be pointed at us in Ha Thanh. Moreover, Ba Gia’s attackers had defeated in detail a second ARVN battalion sent forth from Quang Ngai to reoccupy the garrison. And “defeat in detail” in this instance means Charlie tore the battalion to shreds! The rout was so complete that ARVN commanders tore their insignia of rank from their uniforms and, as common privates, tried to evade capture, leaving their American advisors to fend for themselves.
So Ba Gia was never reoccupied. Now there was only one outpost between Quang Ngai and the Laotian border—us.
As fall progressed, intelligence sources continued to identify new enemy units infiltrating into the district, first companies, then battalions, and finally regiments. In fact, at times it was difficult to believe that Son Ha District was actually large enough to hold all the enemy. Some of these sources said were there. We were convinced that all these enemy soldiers had but one mission order from General Giap: annihilate Ha Thanh; take no prisoners.
We patrolled by day, while the Air Force illuminated our camp at night and flew countless close tactical air sorties against real and suspected enemy emplacements, day and night. On occasion, VNAF (Vietnam’s air force) assisted in these missions and, contrary to all we had been told, were very good at it. In fact, they were at times more daring and accurate than their U.S. counterparts. Still the enemy made no deliberate, determined attack on our camp.
With the passage of time, we began to breathe easier. Until we awoke one morning to discover that OP 66, our most eastward observation post, had been overrun the night before. OP 66, a site garrisoned by perhaps half that many Ruff Puffs, had sat astride the Son Ha-Quang Ngai highway (an unimproved dirt road) about midway between Ha Thanh and the now-deserted garrison at Ba Gia. Its fall, coupled with the aforementioned intelligence indicators, convinced our C detachment it was now time to commit its newly formed Nung Mike force to the defense of Ha Thanh. Then we really had a fight on our hands.
It was a dark, overcast, and drizzly afternoon, typical of the monsoon season, when the Mike force arrived at Ha Thanh aboard their Marine H-34 helicopters. Roaring up the valley in file, the helicopters were in fact flying NOE (nap of the earth), not because it was tactically sound or technically innovative to do so but because the low overhanging ceiling prevented them from flying at any greater altitude. Settling on our unimproved runway, they off-loaded the Mike force. The confrontation between the Chinese Nungs of the Mike force and the Vietnamese of our strike force began before the last H-34 had disappeared into the valley’s mist.
The confrontation between the Nungs’ taskmaster, an Australian warrant named Gundy, and me began almost immediately.
Setting my own faults aside for the moment, and they are many, let me say that Gundy was an arrogant, egotistical cretin, so much so that even his fellow Aussies, the most loyal of nationalists, avoided him whenever possible. On reflection, I don’t suppose that bothered Gundy, since, as he often told anyone willing to listen, he didn’t really consider himself an Australian; he thought of himself only as a Nung. Within an hour of so of his arrival, while he and I were in our underground communications bunker arguing—discussing—how best to defend the camp, we suddenly heard a .30 caliber A6 machine gun begin firing.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
“Fuck me, mate, this is it!” Gundy yelled, excitedly. “Guess we Nungs got here just in time, what say?”
“I think not,” I replied, unsure of whether I was referring to the timeliness of the Nungs’ arrival or his assessment of the tactical situation.
Seizing our weapons, we ran up the bunker’s sandbagged stairs, emerging under the dull and dreary overcast sky to find the Nungs lined up on one side of the camp preparing to do battle, with our strikers aligning the other. The two forces were yelling and cursing in Vietnamese and Chinese, while Sergeants Luden and Warner stood between them, trying to defuse the situation.
Evidently, one of our strikers had fired a machine gun in the air amid a rampant verbal fray between the two groups, a fray that had broken out when the Nungs attempted to fill defensive positions previously occupied by our strikers. The striker, a man named Phan, the commander of 403d Company and one of the bravest of our brave, might have fired the machine gun in an attempt to restore order-and later that was his defensive plea. On the other hand, he might have fired it as a face-saving, fight-provoking gesture. (On reflection, I think the latter was the case.) Warrant Gundy was enraged, to put it mildly, and started yelling about courts-martial, dawn executions, official reprimands, and so forth.
“Nobody shoots at my Nungs, Lieutenant. Nobody! Understand!”
“Now simmer down, Chief,” I replied. “I mean nobody really shot at anybody, just fired the gun in the…”
“Bullshit! He threatened my Nungs!” he shouted testily, interrupting me. “And nobody threatens my Nungs. Nobody! I’ll have that bloody Danang cowboy of yours hung!”
“Okay, Chief, we’ll do it at sunrise. But right now, I think…”
“And I’ll tell you something else, Lieutenant,” he continued, again interrupting me. “I’m gonna report this incident to Colonel Aidorn forthwith, and I’m gonna use your name freely.”
Oh, to hell with it, I thought, losing my temper. “Mr. Gundy, I don’t give a good goddamn who you report what to, but it’s gonna be dark soon, and I suggest we get our people in some sort of defensive posture. And if we can’t do that, I’ll call Colonel Aldorn and ask him to extract you and your fucking Nungs forthwith!”
“Oh, yeah! Well, Lieutenant, let me tell you something.”
The incident was not handled with a lot of professionalism by either of us, and I felt bad about it—but then, I was only a second lieutenant. And second lieutenants are not schooled in joint and combined warfare, nor is tact one of their more notable character traits.
After tempers had cooled, we divided the camp, assigning each of the two forces a portion thereof. Nungs and strikers remained in this posture for the next week or so, avoiding each other as much as possible. In the meantime, Warrant Gundy and I went about our business, we too avoiding each other as much as possible.
Then intelligence indicators began to reveal that the threat in Son Ha District was dissipating, the enemy supposedly retiring to do battle elsewhere. Warrant Gundy and his Nungs returned to Danang, convinced that their intervention at Ha Thanh had been the pivotal factor behind the enemy’s decision to withdraw. Of course, we knew better. We knew Charlie was posed for an attack when the Mike force arrived. However, after observing our efforts at organizing a combined defense of the camp that afternoon, he had a good laugh and decided to move on. Why in the world should he waste his soldiers and ammunition on a camp that was about to self-destruct?
By mid-December only three of the original team remained at Ha Thanh—Jock Wamer, Ken Luden, and me. Christmas came and went and with it Sergeant Luden. Jock and I spent New Year’s Eve at the campsite, and then he departed. Three days later, on the next helicopter out, I left the Son Ha Valley, never to see it or its people again. But I think of them now and then—and dream of them often.
15. Fort Benning, Georgia: February 1966
I spent the next eighteen months as an instructor in platoon and company tactics at the U.S. Aray’s Infantry School—watching our Army turn itself inside out. Overnight, the Army had turned its entire focus on Southeast Asia. Suddenly, no Army training post was complete without its media-oriented “Vietnam village.” Doctrine was
