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Soft Targets, Part I

By Joseph Giannini

East Hampton, New York
Nov. 10, 2004
0600 hours.

I wake suddenly. Something I learned to do in the Marine Corps. My wife Nikki has the alarm set for 0700. I pull on sweats, head for the kitchen. Cody, our Lab Chesapeake mix, follows close behind. Give him a Milk Bone. Let him out back and Mr. Hobbes in from his nightly rampage. Pour some cat food into a bowl and milk into another.

Turn on the Weather Radio to get the Montauk Buoy Report. Listen while I get the coffee going. The surf is building. Right now it's at seven to eleven feet. But the wind's not right. Onshore. It'll be offshore late tonight. I'll do a Dawn Patrol and catch it in the morning.

I click off the Weather Radio and turn on the regular radio, set to NPR for the morning news. It's a broadcast from a woman reporter embedded with the First Battalion Third Marines in Fallujah, Iraq. I served with 1/3, aka the Home of the Brave, in Vietnam. I listen to her report while I brush my teeth, shave, shower and get dressed. 1/3 has been in Iraq only two weeks. Most of the Marines are 18, 19 and 20 years old. Never been in combat. Soon after they arrived In Country one of their vehicles hit a land mine. Eight Marines were killed. Nine seriously wounded. Not a good way to win their hearts and minds. The reporter describes the ongoing assault into Fallujah. 1/3 is cutting a swath of death and destruction. It's "get some" time.

My mind goes back to Nam. Booby traps and mines were a deadly problem there too. The Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese Army used a number of different kinds. They even booby-trapped our dud artillery rounds. Buried them and rigged a trip wire to a detonator installed in the nose. In Iraq the insurgents are booby-trapping 155mm rounds, detonating them remotely with cellphones. The V.C. also booby-trapped land mines, normally used to destroy tanks and trucks, to explode when a person tripped them. Most Marines who set off a booby-trapped artillery round or a land mine were killed or severely wounded. Some survived severed in half.

In Nam we rarely had mine detectors. On patrols we kept the interval, five meters between each Marine. An attempt to limit our casualties. We cut bamboo branches into walking sticks. Used them to prod the ground ahead. Our walking sticks saved many lives. Mine was one.

Quang Tri Combat Base
Vietnam
Jan. 31, 1968
2400 hours.

Vietnam's New Years Eve, known as Tet. The Year of the Monkey. A weeklong truce will follow. Doubtful. 1/3 has been defending the perimeter at Quang Tri Combat Base since mid-January. I thought it would be a hus, a break, from chasing gooks all over the boonies. It hasn't been. The incoming - rockets, mortars, and sniper rounds - is incessant. Keeps us awake most of the night.

I've been In Country seven months. Less than a week ago I was transferred from Bravo Company to Delta. I picked up a rifle platoon, Delta Three, and a Seabee platoon. The Seabees are helping us man the lines. Delta's Executive Officer is on R&R. I've assumed his duties until he returns.

Midnight, New Year's Eve. I step out of our Company bunker. The night is cool and clear. Stars sparkling in a huge black cave. The New Year begins with fireworks arching over Quang Tri City. Suddenly the sound changes. Thump, thump, thump. Followed quickly by rockets crashing into our perimeter. I dive into my hole. The enemy is firing 122mm rockets armed with delayed detonating fuses. They burrow deep before exploding. We have no defense. Death dances amongst us. Choosing partners at whim. Each step a loud thud that shakes the Earth. White-hot shrapnel zings. I've dug a narrow deep hole. Making as small a target as possible. I'm facing a dance with death. No heroics. No sacrifice. No glory.

"Please, please God stop it," I say out loud. But the dance continues unabated through the night. The first rays of dawn start etching across the Base. Still no enemy ground attack. I'd rather have one. Then we could fight and die like men.

The next day Delta Six, Captain Hendricks, our Company Commander, gets a radio message from Battalion Headquarters. An Army Ranger Battalion is landing inside the perimeter. Just across from us, on the other side of the tarmac. Captain Hendricks wants me to make contact with them when they come on board. Give them the scoop. The Rangers chopper in just before dusk. They're probably thinking they can stand down for the night. I radio over. Tell them we get hit every night. Rockets, mortars, probes and snipers. I tell them to dig in. I know the area. Soft sand. The Rangers will be a large cluster of soft targets.

Just past 0100 hours a barrage of rockets slams into our positions. We run for cover. I jump into my hole. Alone. Immobile. Cornered. Struggling to control my fear. Survival a matter of luck. Even so, I close my eyes and pray. Several more barrages. Then quiet. I wait. No incoming. I climb out. Walk slowly to the Company bunker. An urgent radio call comes in from the Rangers. Their Colonel, the Battalion Commander, has been hit. A priority shrapnel wound to the chest. The Rangers want our help moving him to the Base Field Hospital. I tell the Company radio operator to call for an ambulance. Then I radio the Rangers. Let them know help is on the way.

The ambulance driver arrives. Tells us he's parked on our side of the tarmac, about 50 meters from the Company bunker. I decide to go along with him to help move the Colonel. We leave the bunker, start running toward the ambulance. At 15 meters away, swoosh. I dive into the soft sand. Boom! A rocket explodes in a large fireball to my left. The earth shakes. White-hot shrapnel spins by. Swoosh. Boom! Swoosh. Boom! We're caught in the open. No bunkers or holes. Swoosh. Boom! Swoosh. Boom! Silence for about 20 seconds. A lull, they're making an adjustment. I jump up and run for the ambulance. Dive and roll underneath.

Swoosh. Boom! Swoosh. Boom! Swoosh. Boom! Rockets exploding on the tarmac. No sign of the driver. He must have turned back. Fuck. I'm outta here. I have to get away from this airstrip. Find some cover. Silence again. Another lull. They're probably moving the rocket launchers. I roll out from under the ambulance. Rise and run away from the strip, into the Seabees' area. Still no incoming. I start back toward Delta's Command bunker. Almost there, I kneel down alongside a Seabee Bunker. Ready to make a final sprint to my hole. From inside the bunker, a Seabee says, "Did you see that crazy bastard out there?" Fuck, I'm that crazy bastard.

I take off. Make it to my hole. Jump in. More rockets, most hitting the strip. Some overshooting into our area. Finally it stops. I crawl out. Cautiously enter the Company bunker. The Company R.O. hands me the radio handset. It's a Ranger. He wants to know where the ambulance is. I respond that I'm working on it. Turn and order the R.O. to find the fucking ambulance driver. Several minutes pass. Another call from the Rangers. No hurry. The Colonel is dead.

Joseph Giannini, a criminal defense attorney, served in Vietnam from 1967 to 1968 with the First Battalion, Third Marines.