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W
e went in Chinooks that day In February 1968. The TET offensive had been in full fury for a couple of days and with the Division being "in country" just over a month, we were still "cherries" as the old saying used to go. "Airborne all the way; but "cherries" just the same. From the area that was later to become Camp Eagle midway between Phu Bai and Hue, Co. C, 2/501st was prepared to CA into positions Northwest of Hue, drop off building materials and what was later to become "LZ Sally" and push towards the city. The feeling of liftoff made my senses know we were airborne Looking to the left I can remember meeting the eyes of my best friend, JIm Foster, who had gone through AIT and Jump School with me and now was assigned to the same squad in third platoon. We gave each other a look that expressed the feeling of knowing that our time as "Cherries" was about over.. The view from a chinook is not quite as panoramic as dangling out the side of a "slick" as we were to do later. Even so, we could catch teasing glimpses of the city, not knowing that below us the 5th Marines were locked in a life and death struggle to secure the south bank of the Perfume River from the NVA/VC. That could have explained why we gained height when flying over the city itself. I'm sure only a select few on board knew the answer to that one. It seems that we had no sooner taken off that we began circling and losing altitude for the insertion. My heart began to race as the back door of the chinook lowered so we could get out of there carrying the concertian wire and sandbags we had been detailed to deliver to the LZ. The prop wash about blew us over as the 'birds' left the area as fast as they had arrived and we were seemingly on our own now. Moving in platoons-on-line with third platoon in the middle, we began to push toward our blocking force positions along the northwest wall of the Citadel some six miles ahead. It was late afternoon with darkness not far away when it happened. About one and one-half clicks from where we landed we had begun to sweep through an old cemetery with those everpresent mounded gravesites. Along the edge of the cemetery and near a rice paddy we began to receive heavy smallarms fire from the left flank. We would later recognize that "crackle" as the distinct sound of an AK-47, but today it was still somewhat unfamiliar. From a few shots to a deafening din, Charlie Company was getting action for sure. Looking around to orient myself, I realized that we were in a small village. A finger of the rice paddy, about fifty meters wide, seperated us from what was later estimated as a reinforced NVA platoon. Directly across the paddy from third platoon was a "hooch" that seemed to house five or six muzzle flashes, so we began to pour fire into it. I began to fire carefully-aimed shots at the flashes as they occurred not more than 75 meters away. Jim Foster was about five meters from me, behind a grave mound, firing his M-79 at the roof. Lt. Santos and SP4 Sierra had crawled to a spot directly in the line of fire making it impossible to shoot without hitting them, so I began to help Jim spot his 79 rounds. All around us we could hear squad leaders exhorting their people to move up, machine gunners pleading for more ammo, and the sound of the PRC 25 from Lt. Santos' RTO and the familiar voice of Captain Gillam on the other end. We were up to our necks, but against what we could not tell then. In the next instant I heard a loud groan and in horror, I saw Jim Foster lurch backward, drop his M-79, and lie still. He had taken a hit in the chest from an AK round. My first reaction was yell for the medic and soon many others were doing it too. I tried to reach him, but bullets stitched the ground between us so I had to sit in that stinking hole and wait for "Doc" to get to him. Whe the medic did get to JIm he tried everything in his power to save his life. Plastic went over the wound, a bandage over it, and a great effort of chest massage to get some sort of heartbeat going. It was gallant, but futile effort. Jim was already dead. Sergeant Barringer, our squad leader who had been hit in the arm, carried Jim out of there. I followed, carrying his web gear and weapon. My immaturity, which was taking its own dying breath, made me gripe and complain about everything in sight. I did not take into consideration that my own personal opinions didn't matter in the least just then; the only thing that mattered was getting our people out of there. One other "Charlie Company" trooper died that day. Captain Gillam's RTO Rick Soliz was hit by sniper's bullets and died almost instantly. Still basically inexperienced, we had pulled back into the yard of a hooch and milled around in shock until the booming voices of Captain Gillam and First Sergeant Robert Cook brought us back to reality. Immediately, we formed a small perimeter around the hooch while our leaders began to take stock of what had happened. A MEDIVAC bird was called in to take out our wounded (I cannot remember exactly how many) and our two dead. When this was done we began to move back toward the place we had landed. From beginning shots to the end, it couldn't have lasted more than forty-five minutes, but it may have been 45 years. We dug bunkers with interlocking fireports on each end and settled in for a nervous night. I finally had time to set down before bunker guard, so my mind (like 90 others probably) returned to the firefight of that afternoon. I suddenly realized that a friend that I had been with every day for the past eight months was gone and I had nor even had a chance to say good-bye. It was an emotional moment, to be sure, but I couldn't react the way a normal person would - by crying. I had no time to do so. That would have to come later. I learned that many times in combat you don't have time to think or cry. My friend, Jim, is buried somewhere in upstate New York. I imagine, although I don't know for sure if I'll ever find out where, I'll go there someday to visit him. I can cry for him then.
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