After the planes left, it was our turn. We loaded ourselves with ammunition and attached bayonets to our rifles. Each man also carried a field bandage and a canteen of water. No food was allowed, but I took a C-ration can of peaches along just the same. Our rucksacks were too clumsy for this mission so they were collected by a rear guard and placed in a big pile. Howard Siner and I hid our packs in the bushes, figuring it would be easier to reclaim them rather than sort them out from among hundreds of others.
We moved out in single file following a ridge trail toward the base of the hill where we would later link up with the 3/187th. The trail was well used and up to five feet wide in some places. Both sides were littered with discarded US Army equipment, half-used machine gun belts, empty M-16 magazines, canteens, ponchos, and web gear. As we rounded a turn, we came upon three body bags lying along the trail’s edge, each with a dead American inside. Our column stopped there, so we sat down to wait. From down the line I watched Sergeant Krol moving closer until he reached my position.
“What’s the holdup?” he asked officially.
“I don’t know. Everyone just stopped.”
Krol looked around for a place to sit then casually sat on one of the body bags.
“Hey!” I yelled, “there’s a GI in that bag. Don’t you care?”
“What’s the problem?” Krol asked honestly. “He’s dead. He doesn’t feel a thing.”
“You’re a heartless bastard.”
“Watch it, Wiknik. Being insubordinate will just get you into a deeper hole.”
It was all I could do to keep quiet, but I didn’t say anything more to the son-of-a-bitch because no one backed me up. A few minutes later, the column moved again.
Farther along the trail lay the decomposing bodies of two NVA soldiers who had been dead for at least a week. Their lips were receded, exposing the teeth, and their eyes were only shriveled remnants. Insects of every variety were feasting on the flesh. Aside from the bullet holes, their uniforms looked new, quite unlike the black pajamas worn by the VC. We covered our noses and mouths with towels; the stench was stomach-turning.
As we reached the base of the hill, we came upon the men of the 3/187th. It was from this location they had been launching their attacks. The place looked awful. All the ground vegetation was trampled down to the dirt, military equipment was strewn everywhere, and the area stunk of human waste. The GIs were unnaturally quiet as we approached. Most were filthy, unshaven, and exhausted. Some had the thousand-mile stare, the dead, distant gaze many combat soldiers acquire. It was as if they had seen the gates of hell. Looking at them, I felt ashamed of the Army and myself. While this misery was going on, my company should have been here. Instead, we were at Eagle Beach having a picnic and getting drunk.
One of their soldiers focused on me. “Hey, Sergeant,” he called, motioning to my shirt sleeves, “unless you rip those stripes off, you’ll never see the top of that hill. The Gooks shoot the leaders first. And you better remove the tracers from your machine gun belts because the Gooks can see where the bullets are coming from. Then they shoot at the gunners, too.”
I nodded as if we would follow his suggestions, but I didn’t know if he was serious. Then he started again, only this time with more emotion.
“None of you will ever see the top of that hill!” he shouted, pointing at us. “Every time we get near the crest, the Gooks pop out of their holes from behind us and shoot us in the back. That’s why we call it Hamburger Hill. Because anyone who goes up there gets chewed up. I’ve got friends still lying out there and we can’t even bring their bodies back.” Then he began to sob, but there were no tears. “Why can’t the Army just let it be and get us the fuck out of here?”
Eventually, one of his buddies came over to lead him away. The other GIs just looked at us with blank expressions because everyone knew the Army was not about to give it up.
We moved out again, this time cutting our own trail along a finger-like ridge. As we slowly advanced, I caught glimpses of the hill through the vegetation. It looked barren, as if no one could possibly be up there.
Suddenly, our lead element opened fire with their M-16s. We hit the dirt but the shooting lasted only seconds. Moments later, word came down that the point had killed an NVA sniper who had tied himself high in a tree. The sniper didn’t fall out. Instead, he hung grotesquely like a rag doll with a rope around his waist. As we passed by, dripping blood from the body sprinkled down like raindrops. We had no respect for the dead enemy soldier, and left him hanging as a warning to his buddies.
By the time we got into our attack location it was late afternoon, so there would be no assault that day. We set up a close defensive line of three-man positions to prevent any NVA from sneaking between us. In my position were PFC Howard Siner and PFC Lennie Person.
Lennie Person was a black inner-city kid from Ohio who hated being in Vietnam because he was convinced he was going to die. Many of us were vocal about hating Vietnam, but we kept the fear of dying a secret so no one would think less of us.
“Hey Sergeant,” Lennie asked. “Remember that GI who told you to take off your stripes and remove the tracers from our machine gun belts?”
“Sure,” I answered, “I could never forget him. He was a basket case.”
“Well, do you really think the NVA are picking out targets to shoot at? I mean, do you think they want to shoot blacks too?”
“Lennie,” I started, unsure of what to really tell him. “They’ll be shooting at all of us. But try not to worry about it. We’ve got them outnumbered and surrounded. Besides, how many can be left up there? This whole thing will be over before noon tomorrow.”
Siner looked at me as if I was crazy because he knew that I didn’t know what I was talking about. But he also knew I had to make up something to keep Lennie from becoming so scared that he would be useless.
“Lennie,” Siner said, trying to console him, “I’m almost twice your size and I can carry lots of ammo. Why don’t you stick with me tomorrow? That way we can protect each other.”
Lennie was so relieved by Siner’s offer that he shook his hand in appreciation. Siner glanced back at me as if to say, “I had to do something.” I gave him an affirmative nod because I knew he did the right thing.
We didn’t dig in because the ridge was too steep, but we were able to level the ground enough for sleeping. Hardly anyone slept. Throughout the night, distant voices and other noises were heard coming from the hill. Many of us hoped that the NVA were fleeing because of the massive allied buildup of 600 GIs, 200 ARVNs and 300 more GIs in close reserve that formed a circular barrier along the base of the hill stretched out nearly one mile long.
At daybreak, enemy small arms fire cracked over the hillside, telling us at least someone was still up there. In response, air strikes were called in which stopped the shooting. Between the bombing runs, the NVA dropped random mortar rounds near the hill base to harass us as well.
Small arms fire cracked again, but this time it was M-16’s as men from my company killed another enemy soldier. Not carrying a weapon, the lone NVA had walked directly to one of our positions, as if to surrender. When he got closer, someone noticed a Chicom grenade in his left hand. The soldier was immediately gunned down. The grenade turned out to be a dud. After that, orders came down that there would be no prisoners taken. Our commanders correctly believed that any NVA fanatical enough to still be in the area would also be willing to fight to the death.
Things got quiet again as we waited for other units to get into their final attack positions. While sitting there, I began to feel hunger pains. I suspect everybody did because we had not eaten for nearly twenty hours. The problem was the only food close by was my can of peaches. So I had to think of a way to eat them without being seen. It didn’t work. As soon as the can was open, everybody glared at me. They all wanted peaches. I couldn’t share them with 100 men, so I hunched over and wolfed them down just to get it over with. Nobody said anything, but their sneering sure made me uncomfortable.
Shortly after 9:00 a.m., the hill was bombarded with a final onslaught of our artillery. This prep was the softening needed for us to make what was hoped to be the last assault. The fusillade was so intense that there was hardly a moment without an explosion. All the firebases in the A Shau fired with such incredible accuracy that the rounds impacted every square yard of the battle area for nearly an hour. The mountain was being raked by so much shrapnel that some of it struck the tall trees above us, knocking down branches. When this final barrage ended, Ap Bia Mountain had taken a total of 155 air strikes and 20,000 artillery rounds during the ten-day campaign.
At exactly 10:00 a.m., we were given the command to assault. Everyone moved out from the vegetation cover, forming a long skirmish line. The hill was monstrous and, despite the fact that it was completely denuded from all the bombing, would still be a formidable obstacle to climb. Loose dirt, splintered logs, stumps with exposed roots, and deep bomb craters made the terrain look like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. The extent of the destruction convinced many of us that there could not possibly be any NVA left to fight. In fact, when the assault began, the only shooting came from GIs when we laid down suppressive fire as a tactical precaution. To our surprise, the NVA were still there. Ten minutes into what was believed to be a one-way assault, distant units on our right met light resistance. We didn’t know it at the time but several hundred NVA continued to occupy the hill.
Our advance was slow and deliberate, either crawling or moving diagonally from stump to hole, then waiting for the next person to catch up before moving again. By 10:30 a.m., most of my company had reached the first row of enemy bunkers. Although the bunkers were mostly destroyed and abandoned, we tossed grenades into them to be sure.
As our skirmish line worked past the bunkers, a squad of NVA poured from a trench, attacking an element of the beleaguered 3/187th. Although eight or nine men were initially wounded, all the GIs in that area rallied to wipe out the enemy squad. Directly above the spot more NVA appeared, and a pitched battle of RPGs, hand grenades, and small arms fire began. As if on cue, the knoll in front of my position suddenly erupted as NVA poured out to attack us.
Unaware of these events, I continued evasive action, still assuming the shooting in my area was only coming from our weapons. As I crawled forward the dirt in front and alongside of me spit as if subterranean air bubbles were rising to the surface. I thought I was witnessing a rare geological phenomenon until I realized bullets were hitting the ground and that I was the target! If there was a sporting event for the low-crawl, I set a new speed record crabbing my way to the nearest bomb crater. I looked to find the source of the shooting but the hill had no features left that could possibly hide enemy forces. The NVA must have survived the ten-day pounding by staying inside deep bunkers and spider holes.
The shooting intensified and again the dirt erupted around me, so I decided to strike back. Lying in the crater, I raised my rifle high above my head and let loose a full burst of rock n’ roll. I had no specific target, but loaded another magazine and sprayed the hillside once more before moving out to find a deeper hole.
I saw a GI waving his hand so I crawled to his location and rolled behind a stump that offered enough protection for me to peek up the hillside. I saw a lone NVA run from his bunker but before I could draw a bead to shoot, someone else nailed him and he fell dead to the ground. When I turned back to the GI, he was still laying on his back waving his hand in the air.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.
“Trying to get shot in the arm!” he answered firmly.
“Are you nuts?” I screamed back.
“No. I just want to go home, but not in a body bag.”
I had to get away from him. Even though I had decent cover, it didn’t make sense to hang around someone trying to draw fire to himself. I crawled off to hide alongside a fallen tree. When I got there, splinters of wood flew off as enemy bullets ripped into it. I had no choice but to lay low until the NVA decided to pick on someone else.
As the fighting continued around me, I fired several bursts over the top of the log without even looking to see where I was shooting. It was an ineffective tactic that forced me to stay hidden because every time I was exposed, an NVA shot at me.
While lying there, I felt the need to urinate. Since battlefield body functions were something never discussed during training, I waited for the urge to pass. It didn’t. With everything that was going on, I actually paused to consider whether to piss on the ground or in my pants. I chose the ground. Pissing in a prone position was new for me but everything flowed out the same. However, as soon as I started urinating, bullets once again zeroed in on my location, pulverizing the log. The Gooks must be trying to shoot my penis off! I had to finish the job by wetting myself.
Jimmy Smith finally got our machine gun into position and laid down a murderous 500-round burst that sprayed an area the size of a football field. I enjoyed watching him work, but with so much smoke pouring off the gun barrel I worried that it might overheat. The machine gunner’s volley gave everyone the chance to advance. I gained almost a hundred feet before crawling into a bomb crater alongside PFC Anderson, from our platoon’s 3rd squad.
Lying face to face in the crater, our eyes connected for an instant. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. We looked at each other in the only way that men on the brink of death could. We conveyed a silent message to each that said, “This could be it, but let’s try to keep each other alive.”
We were close to the NVA now because the crack of AK-47’s was distinguishable from the M-16’s. The frequency of firing diminished slightly, giving us a chance to see where the shooting was coming from.
“See anything?” I asked, barely peering over the crater’s edge.
“Yeah,” said Anderson, pointing, “near the crest I can see the dust fly from muzzle blasts.”