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Interval

By Joseph Giannini

Booby traps and mines were a deadly problem in Nam, as they are now in Iraq, where over 60 percent of our KIAs are caused by improvised explosive devices. The Vietcong and the North Vietnamese Army had many types. They even booby-trapped our own dud artillery rounds, buried them and rigged a trip wire to a detonator installed in the nose. In Iraq the insurgents are also booby-trapping artillery rounds, remotely detonating them with cellphones. The VC also rigged landmines normally used to destroy tanks and trucks to explode when a person stepped on them.

Most Marines who set off a booby-trapped artillery round or landmine were killed or severely wounded. Some survived severed in half. On patrol we kept the interval: five meters between each Marine. An attempt to limit our casualties. In Nam we rarely had mine detectors. We cut bamboo branches into "walking sticks," which we used to prod the ground ahead as we went. Our walking sticks saved many lives–including mine

Dark, just before dawn. Delta Company–three rifle platoons with attachments, boards 10 slicks lined up on the airstrip at the Quang Tri combat base. I climb aboard and face forward in the open hatch. Brace my back against the bulkhead. Hang my right leg overboard. The slicks lift off. Cool air rushes over me. The sun rises behind as our formation flies west into a sea of foothills. Beyond them, dark green mountains shrouded in grey clouds and the Khe Sahn combat base, where 5,000 Marines are fighting 20,000 NVA. We chopper into the LZ without any incoming. Jump off the hovering slicks. Fan out to establish a perimeter. Still no enemy fire. We move out in a V-formation heading west: Delta One and Delta Three abreast followed by Delta Two. We hump through hills covered with low shrub. Mid-afternoon, my command, Delta Three, finds a hidden cache of 60 mortar rounds. Our combat engineers blow them up in place. The sun starts to set on the mountains to our west. We move onto high ground, to set up and dig in. The night passes without enemy activity, but our own Harassment and Interdiction artillery fire keeps us up all night. Next morning the sun is gone. Grey mist hugs the earth. Delta moves northwest through a steady drizzle. We're in a combat column. Delta One is on point. I follow with Delta Three. Delta Six, the Company Commander, is with Delta Two in the rear, out of sight. Mid-morning. The drizzle has stopped. Delta One is moving onto the crest of a small hill. There is a village across a large stream to our left. I'm just starting up with my platoon. "Boom! Boom!" I duck. Freeze. A large piece of gray shrapnel spins by my left. I follow its flight, see several villagers running. Guilty knowledge taking flight. Delta One has hit two land mines. Screaming from the crest of the hill: "Corpsman up, Corpsman up!" I yell down the line to my Marines, "Stay in place. Face outboard. Could be an ambush." I can't see the crest and won't move up to take a look. Why take the chance of setting off other mines? My Radio Operator says Delta Six wants to speak to me. I take the radio handset. "Delta Six, Delta Three Actual Over." "Lieutenant, move up to Delta One immediately. Give me a situation report. Out." "Yes Sir, Delta Three Actual out." Fuck. Why can't Delta One Actual give a situation report? I tell my RO to stay put. I'll use Delta One's radio to call back. I start to ascend. I'm looking for hidden wires. Also for rocks and broken branches arranged in unnatural patterns. Looking down at each step I take. I slowly move up, reach the crest. The situation: to my right, seven Marines down with serious shrapnel wounds, mostly to the lower body. Delta One Actual, the platoon leader, is standing off to my left. He's facing away from me and his downed Marines. I approach him. "Rob." No response. He continues to face away. "Rob," I say again. Still no response. I reach with my left hand and grab his left shoulder. He turns to me. Tears streak down his burned, soiled face. "Joe, I can't do this anymore. I won't take them one more step." He falls to his knees, wraps his arms around my legs. Rests his head on my stomach. I put my left hand on his right shoulder. Hold him firmly. Bow my head. Tears crease my dirty face. His RO approaches to my right. "Delta Six wants to speak to Lieutenant Giannini." I raise Rob to his feet. Release my grip. Take the handset. "Delta Six this is Delta Three Actual. Over." "Lieutenant, what's going on up there? Over." "We're in a minefield. Seven seriously wounded. Over." "Lieutenant, what do you suggest? Over." "We can't go forward. Get slicks to lift us out of here. Over." "I can't get slicks. Over." "Then we'll have to retrace our steps. We might walk into an ambush. Over." "Two medevacs are on the way. Let me know when the wounded are on board. Delta Six out." "Yes sir, Delta Three out." "Rob, get your men ready to load the wounded onto the medevacs. We're moving off this hill. Your platoon will be tail-end Charlie." He nods. Walks slowly into the midst of his downed Marines. I turn and move cautiously to the nearest wounded Marine. He's lying prone on his poncho. On a slight incline, his head tilted downhill. He's calm. The morphine has kicked in. I kneel down beside his right shoulder, facing his lower body. His jungle trousers have been mostly blown away. Each leg a color abstract. Burned, torn slabs of white gristle. Burned, torn slabs of red muscle. Burned, broken protruding bones. I say to myself, "This isn't real. Just plastic and rubber." An attempt to suppress my emotions. To control getting sick. "Marine, you'll be off this hill shortly. You're on your way back to The World." "Sir, can I have some water?" I look him over. Make sure he doesn't have any stomach or belly wounds, then remove my canteen and unscrew the top. He remains calm. His head is still tilted back. I slowly pour water between his slightly parted lips. "What's your name, Marine?" "Webb, sir, Corporal Webb." "Where you from, Webb?" "Ocean City, Maryland, sir." Whoomping to our west. I look up. Two medevacs are approaching fast. "Green, the medevacs are coming in. Hold tight. We'll be moving you, O.K?" "O.K. sir." The chopper swoops down to the hill. Hovers about three feet off the ground--trying not to set off other mines. We have to move. I suppress my fear. Webb is the furthest from the chopper. He'll be the last oneout. Four men carry, then lift, four of the wounded Marines onto the waiting chopper. Rising fast, it is gone.