Introduction – Chapter 1 – Chapter 2 – Chapter 3 – Chapter 4 – Summary
Hill 362 and The Stream bed
Acres of Rice Paddies
After a quick breakfast, we are loaded and moving north to the former DMZ. Everyone’s senses are heightened and alert, observing all the sights, smells and sounds as we converse on the way. Phong and Ngoc, for the past year, have made several trips from different directions, and succeeded in finding a path of least resistance to the battlefields.
We stop in Cam Lo to board a dump truck, improvised as a troop carrier, adequate for this trip. For some reason this truck stands out to me, like the wart on your great aunt’s nose. This has got to be the ugliest Mercedes Benz dump truck in all of Vietnam, I realize we ain’t going on a main street parade ride, but I think this truck was here in ’66. From now on I will refer to it as the “Ugly Ass Dump Truck”.
Miles of hills and dense growth
It is loaded with water and troops (us). For our trip of about 5 kilometers into the jungle, the driver is slow and deliberate for safety and great sight seeing.
The terrain is like right out of books, acres of rice paddies with water buffalo and little huts or wooden houses with tin roofs on stilts and then dense covered jungle that shoots straight up a mountainside. Crossing over creeks and through ravines, the road, if you want to call it that, is red clay — narrow and rutted. The trees and vines snag the truck as we duck and pass under.
On Hill 362
We reach a hilltop, where the tree line is open, and you can see miles of hills and dense growth. I think this is the backside of the Dong Ha mountain range. The air is fresh, and I hear jungle sounds of insects and birds, along with the low roar of this Ugly Ass Dump Truck, in which we’re riding. As the truck sways me from side to side, I recognize the distinct broad-rimmed bamboo hats that the farmers wear. I picture myself back in the day, on a patrol looking across the fields with my trusty M14. I’m scanning for suspicious movement or black pajamas. OK, wake up and get back to the story at hand. By the way, I didn’t see any black pajamas and they wouldn’t let me check my M14 on the plane for home. Something about you can’t have former semi- intoxicated jarheads with weapons on the plane, I don’t know. Ha ha-ha
Jerry’s Cross for I 3/5
About 1½ hours along the small windy up and down road, we are here. Out of the truck and a ¼ mile hump up the hill and we are now standing on the crest of Hill 362. I observe Mike, Jerry and Ski as they move around trying to clarify in their minds of where they are compared to where they were 44 years ago. Mike goes into details of July 24th 1966, and Jerry tells of his “a-gunner” and good friend, Lawrence Denny. Ski and Dave ask a few questions, as Paul and I stand silently, taking it all in. Man, those goose bumps once again lock their little bodies at full attention, all up and down my arms.
As I’m walking around, I find it hard to make heads from tails on the hill, not knowing exactly where I am in respect to where everything happened. With no landmarks and no maps, I didn’t know where to look. For some reason I was under the impression, I could stand back and see the trail leading into the saddle and then back up the other side. Mike made the best determinations he could, relying on his recollections. The only certainty was the forest ranger hut on the knob labeled 362. A nice breeze picks up, and you can hear it blowing through the trees. With the trees rustling and sun’s rays piercing through I could stay right here, all day.
We move down an overgrown trail that leads to the saddle where Doc Howell had buried the stones the year before, hacking our way through a lot of scrub bushes and vines, to the site marked on Phong’s GPS. Probably because I was so excited, it seemed like a long time and we were going to hack all the way to Hanoi, but in reality, it was only about 50 yards, and we are there. It was like slow motion, as I watched these former combat Marines mill around, thinking about that particular July day in ‘66. Phong says, “Doc climbed up one of the near by trees last year, so he could determine where the saddle was, as he pointed northwest through the trees.” Mike starts to go over more details of what happened, Jerry again chimes in with his accounts, and then Ski opens up with his remembrances. Paul and I were so wrapped up in their stories, truly glued to each and every word or hand gesture that came at us across the little hacked out area of jungle. We knew these men were releasing thoughts that have been locked away for some time.
Jerry pulls out a cross with a Marine emblem in the center and I CO 3/5 on either side. It was obvious, he had taken a lot of time and hand made this special memorial. He selected a tree, and Paul, the tallest among us, graciously accepted the honor of attaching it high up in its new home. A silent moment fell upon us as we all stared at this “I 3/5 Cross” with the sun rays reflecting off it. No one called for silence. It just fell upon us.
Down in the stream bed.
I waited until I was sure each man had said everything he wanted to say, and for the time I felt was right to dedicate my poem: “Three Days,” written in honor of these men. I remember starting the poem, but somewhere in the beginning, I was lost in my simple little world. Paul said later, “Brother, you did a great job.” At the end of the poem I said, “I salute you, the Men of I 3/5,” and executed a hand salute. Paul said that, “As you crisply popped the salute, Mike, Jerry and Ski became Major Carey, Sgt. Czarnowski and Cpl. Bynum again, because they, too, instinctively locked to attention, and returned the salute. He said, “It was a purely magical moment.” He said he was so engulfed with the emotion of the moment that he missed taking the perfect picture. I guess I was caught up in the moment as well, because I don’t remember doing it. I just remember Mike looking at me and saying, “Well done, Marine.” At this point, we started back to the Ugly Ass Dump Truck. Hacking our way out, I found it pretty cool, swinging that hooked shaped machete. I’m just glad that I don’t have to do it for a living.
On the way down the hill, Jerry walked up beside me and asked for copy of the poem. He said he had missed parts of it because he was dwelling on the first couple of lines. He said it was so right on, that one would have thought that I had been there with them. Man, talk about making my day, you would have thought I just won the Pulitzer Prize. I swelled up full of pride and was jabbering, making no sense the rest of the way down to the truck. Uncertain, I was hoping the poem would go over well, and it appears I need not to worry any longer.
After a brief lunch, we are headed to the stream bed. This has been my primary destination for the whole trip. This is where my dad was wounded, and awarded the Silver Star. This is also the place where he lost most of his squad, and I believe it will haunt him for the rest of his life. After a 20 minute walk through thick jungle grass and vines we arrive at The Stream bed. I could hear water running about 20 yards before we got there and my goose bumps were standing at attention. When I stepped down about 3 feet out of the jungle into the stream bed, I was overwhelmed with honor and respect. I held back the tears of emotion, as we walked to where these stones were buried regaining my composure.
Jerry, Mike and Me in the Kill Zone
Phong took the point, as Paul and I walked slack, and Jerry and Mike brought up the tail. Ski, with his EMT skills, stayed back on the road attending to Dave. The heat had taken its toll, and he needed to stay in the shade with “Doc” Ski attending to him.
As we settled down, Mike began to go into details, pointing out where things happened. It was so surreal for me. I have read so many documents, after action reports and asked different Marines of their accounts that I could easily visualize Mike’s words, and areas that he is pointing out. Jerry recalls as well, his M60 machine gun team setting up during the ambush and afterwards helping with the causalities.
How cool is this for me, being right here, 44 years later with my dad’s skipper, who shared the same wet fighting hole, lying behind a log as Mike put it “We were there in that hole, nutsack-to-nutsack, trying not to get shot”. This is the man responsible for dad’s award, for the actions he witnessed. Jerry pointed out the “kill zone,” where 44 years ago he and others was trying to stay alive. Together, Jerry and Mike explain the chain of events on that long hot day, 22nd of July 1966.
After some time, Jerry hands Paul another well-made Cross memorial in honor of his Company to find its new home. Paul is ecstatic that he’s been given this privilege twice and attaches the cross high upon a tree of the outer bank. Again, a moment of pure silence. The only sound is the stream water running beneath us. “Honor, Respect and Silence”. We take a few more pictures and head back. It’s time to get the group back, load up in the Ugly Ass Dump Truck and head back to Dong Ha.
NOTE: I write above, Mike pointing out how things happened. He did not single out any one person for specific courage, bravery, etc. He spoke of the whole unit’s bravery and courage. Principles and traits of a true leader is exactly what Mike displayed during this trip. I could point out other things I witnessed to justify my statement, but I feel no need.
NOTE: Mike had made several comments as we are going to the Hill, about how it has changed. There is no longer any triple canopy. Now it is mainly tall scrub, underbrush and vines all grown up higher than our heads. This really didn’t register until we got up there. He made a statement to Ski on the way to “Turn off his transmitter and turn on his receiver” I think he should have directed that to me.
NOTE: Words cannot express what one feels in moments like this. I was not there in July ’66; however, I’m here now, and I’ve heard the stories from men that were on this battlefield. And on this day, I’m here with men that have been here, fought and survived to return, again. I see their faces and hear their words, as their stories depict eternal pain. I feel so honored to know these men that served beside my dad. The only thing that could make this better, would be if Doc Howell, Stan Guillaume, Tom Gainer, John Olsen, Gary Crowell, Joe Holt, Doc Bazan and Carlos Cano could have been here with Mike, Jerry, Ski, Dave, my buddy, Paul, and I. There are other Marines from 3/5 that I would proudly stand beside, but these Marines listed I’ve gotten to know and have built a special friendship.
The rest of this trip was “Icing on the Cake”
