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"I couldn't help thinking at the time that many of these young troops would return within to this same airfield, on their way home to military hospitals or military burial with full honors."
NEXT WEEK:
SOG VI --
JPRC
SOG
V: Phu Bai
by Jean d'Isle
' 
hu
Bai was Marine country. 
Contrary to USMC
fighting doctrine, the Marines were holding down fixed
positions in the northernmost part of the country, rather
than attacking objectives and turning the conquered turf
over to the Army to occupy and defend. The Marines wound
up with some of the worst pieces of real estate in South
Vietnam. Like they say...location , location, location.
As we disembarked from the C-123 onto the pierced steel planking (PSP) of the runway, clusters of USMC combat troops were sprawled around the airfield perimeter. Some were returning to rear areas for R and R, some even on their way back to "the world." But most were waiting for helicopters which would lift them out to the forward operating bases, like Khe Sanh. Everybody and everything was covered with layers of red dust kicked up by arriving and departing aircraft I remember how young they looked, like teams of high school kids on their way to an away-from-home game, suited up in helmets, flak jackets without shirts, jungle fatigues and boots. Most carried the plastic, toy-like M-16 assault rifle, their fatigue pockets stuffed with M-16 magazines. I couldn't help thinking at the time that many of these young troops would return within a year to this same airfield, on their way home to military hospitals or military burial with full honors.
A vehicle picked me up at the airfield and we traveled a well-maintained road through rice paddy country to the fortified compound where I would spend my time. I was impressed at how peaceful a ride through the countryside could be, with people actually working in the fields and a fairly brisk movement of civilian and military vehicle traffic in both directions -- not a sound of war anywhere (that would come with the setting sun). I'm not sure what I expected, but I know I was uncomfortable driving past groups of guys (probably old ladies, but who knew?) dressed in the standard black pajamas worn by men and women, good guys and bad guys.
The compound was surrounded by razor wire and fortified bunkers. Like something out of a Mel Gibson road warrior movie, the living quarters which had been plunked down in the center of this primitive setting were pre-fab aluminum mobile-home modules, all linked together to form a single structure. Since the thin aluminum walls were no protection from even the lowest caliber weapon, everyone was told to move quickly to their assigned bunker at the first sign of attack. With the previous night's mortar attack very much on my mind, I paid close attention to the route from my room to my assigned bunker. I didn't see a whole lot of sense in removing my clothes that night; and I literally slept with my boots on and one foot on the floor. Actually, I don't think I slept that night.
With darkness came the sounds of war: far off rumbles, almost felt rather than heard, of B-52 Arc Light missions dropping tons of explosives on pre-approved 1 km-square boxes of enemy territory from altitudes so high you couldn't see or hear the aircraft; the unique sound of the AC-130 gunships (Puff) as they saturated areas the size of a football field with their 20mm gattling guns (these attacks were visible from the compound, the tracers giving the appearance of an arcing red stream from a hose); periodic artillery rounds at varying distances (theirs?ours?); and plenty of flares to light the night skies.
As I was about to drift off to sleep, I was
jolted out of my bunk by a tremendous
explosion. I made a dash for my bunker, glad that I had
the foresight stay suited up. When I finally noticed I
seemed to be the only one rushing anywhere, I was made
aware by nonchalant "old timers" that the
explosion was outgoing from a "friendly" mortar
pit firing H and I (Harassment and Interdiction) rounds
into suspected enemy staging areas to preempt any
attacks. These H and I rounds, purposely unpredictable in
their timing, would continue till dawn. In all the John
Wayne movies I had seen, mortars made a nice little
whooshing sound when fired. Not these mothers! Talk about
waiting for the other shoe to drop -- how about waiting
for the next H and I round to go out?
I don't recall how many days I stayed at Phu Bai; but when it came time to head back to Saigon to cope with demented drivers, VC terrorists and my wretched 9th floor room, I was actually looking forward to it. My primary purpose for the trip had been accomplished, which was to discuss support for another of SOG's primary missions, the recovery of downed aircrew members and prisoners from behind enemy lines.
__________________________________________________
Jean
d'Isle is a retired naval officer living
in Hawaii.
During his
military career he served in a number of overseas
assignments, including Germany, England, Spain, Viet Nam
and Puerto Rico. Following his retirement, he was an
adjunct faculty member of Hawaii Pacific University and
is currently under contract with the U.S. Navy at the
submarine base in Pearl Harbor.
Jean's column, View From d'Isle, is a regular feature of VegSource On-Line Magazine.