Gimpy_Fac
03-11-2014, 04:34 AM
“This Assault operation must be supported by the maximum small arms fire available! Which means all squad machine gunners must produce overwhelming firepower to win the fire-fight, and let you gain the initiative! The position you will be attacking has no depth, therefore, a straight aggressive fight through! That is all, and good luck! “
Squad commanders briefing, pre deliberate attack, Plain of Reeds, Vietnam, 1967.
Once more we were out in the boonie working with the South Vietnamese Marines on one of their expeditions into the Plain of Reeds. There were two other Mike boats in our little attack flotilla, both of which were the standard troop and cargo humpers who were carrying the main attack force. That area of the plain was thick with tall elephant grass infested with large red ants and mosquitoes. The stagnant, putrid water was nearly heaving with leeches.
Peering out through our cover within the elephant grass, and into the man-made clearing, it was the first close look I had of North Vietnamese Regulars. These enemy grunts appeared tough and fit, looked disciplined, and were armed with new Chi-com, Chinese Communist, AK rifles. Their fighting gear, uniforms and pith helmets well cared for. In essence, this time we would be up against properly trained, and dedicated, soldiers.
I caught some movement out the corner of my eye, but it was only our squad’s gunner squirming into position with his M60 light machine gun, digging his toes in against the weapon recoil, which would come once he started to fire.
He was lying in a little watery dip in the swampy ground, a good natural weapons position which reduced his ground profile to practically zero. However, he was soaking up water like a sponge, and probably collecting leeches at the same time. Anyway, adrenalin always overcame discomfort before an anticipated fire-fight. His only other companions, besides the leaches, were red ants and the ever present mosquitoes, the usual cloud of determined insects that seemed to follow us everywhere when we took to the land.
The M60’s gunner, just like all the others waiting to attack ignored their annoyance, and did not react to, or swat at them. To the trained eye, even the slightest movement can be spotted. So breathing shallow, we lay there, under cover, letting the leaches, red ants, and mosquitoes feast away on us. But better a drop of blood to them, than a bleed-out to an enemy weapon round hit.
It was late afternoon when two young NVA grunts, that looked no more than fifteen years of age, began walking towards our cover, as if without a care in the world. The M60 gunner, hidden from their view, must have been waiting in hope that they would about turn and head off the other way. Alas, it was not to be. He waited until the strolling pair were no more than 100 yards from him, and then opened fire. One of the NVA grunts was hit in the lower abdomen, the other on the point of his left shoulder, which spun him into his now crumpling buddy.
As always in these situations, there was a second of complete silence after the machine gun fired, almost as if the world was holding its breath, then mayhem erupted!
The NVA grunts, who had been hit by the M60’s burst of fire, started screaming. Their buddies in the clearing, who had stood like statues in a park when the automatic weapon had fired, came to life, and started firing their weapons in all directions, unsure of the exact direction from where the attack threat was coming.
In that split second of indecision on their part we had already taken advantage and were up on our feet. Running forward, we began firing by instinct at any target that suddenly presented itself. Trying to avoid hitting any S V Marines, or our own guys, if possible, as the attack force flooded into the clearing.
I could see that the inevitable one-on-one fighting had already started, as the NVA tried to make a fighting withdrawal, and the SV Marines being just as determined to stop them. Personal survival, being of the utmost in the mind, made these small individual battles extremely vicious. Each man trying to gain the upper hand over his opponent by kicking, punching, biting, and using any weapon available to hand, even helmets.
In these skirmishes, if one of your opponent’s buddies ran past, he would fire at you, or slash with a fighting knife to assist. Otherwise, if left to the original gladiatorial pair, they were fought to a standstill, either through exhaustion on either side, or the death of one, or both, of the combatants. Just as in a games arena of ancient Rome.
To any passerby, these struggles would probably have resembled a Saturday night drunken fight, resulting from idiots spilling from bars into the highway, completely wrecked out of their skulls from the consumption of alcohol, and full of fighting bullsh*t. However, these particular personal little battles were by far more deadly.
A hard faced NVA non-com, with a Nagant revolver in his hand, and ignoring the stray rounds that were flying around looking for a non-intended target, was standing bawling at his men. It seemed to me that he was trying to form a fighting withdrawal line, exactly as any other non-com would have done.
The last thing a commander wants, regardless of rank status, is a mad scramble of the herd to the rear, and possibly beyond. Anyway, you can never tell if the fight could be turned around, for it is all about judgment. He obviously had no reserve squads to bring into play, or he would have by then. We had, still in the cover of the elephant grass and witnessing the spectacle of their buddies in a life or death struggle, and praying that they wouldn’t be required, this time!
He may just as well have been shouting at the wind, due to the battle din. That din was made up from, people shouting and screaming orders, or in pain, machinegun and rifle fire, detonating grenades and the dull thump of pistols being used at close range. At so close range people’s clothing smoldered as a result of a pistol’s muzzle flash, after it was pressed into their torso when fired
Pistols were immediately discarded after having a “smoke-stack”, or other form of blockage, rendering them useless until cleared. You simply didn’t have time to fu*k about trying to clear any weapon of a blockage; you just brandished it in the way a medieval club would have been, or dropped it. If discarding was the choice, then pulling your bayonet or fighting knife from its sheath you got back at it, full of fighting madness!
The NVA non-com, in obvious frustration at his orders not being heard, or disobeyed, fired his revolver at a fighting pair, hitting a SV Marine in the back of the head. Unfortunately, the heavy round from the revolver traveled straight through and smashed into the face of the NVA grunt the Marine was struggling with. Both went down immediately like pole-axed cattle!
At that instant from my left a figure ran at me. As I turned to fire, he came in at me unchecked like a football lineman would, and hit me hard knocking the wind out of me. As I went sprawling from his body check my rifle flew from my grasp. Scrambling on to my back, and at the same time trying to pull my pistol, my attacker was on me in a flash! With a knife in one hand, and a US La Gana tomahawk in the other, in all probability a battlefield find, he started to slash and hack at me with the ferocity of the demented!
I dropped my pistol in the rush to free it from its holster, just as a swinging blow from the tomahawk cut deeply at the base of my left thumb, and a knife stab went into the muscle at the side of the palm. As I tried frantically to fend off the attack with my left hand, his knife blade made a deep cut on the inside of that wrist, just missing a vein. All of this was going on as I groped away frantically for my pistol with the right hand! In that instant I was already starting to lose the fight, so abandoned the pistol idea to one of defense only.
Kicking trying to dislodge my attacker, who had a leg grip on me like a professional wrestler, and trying to grab for the knife, also fending off more attempted tomahawk blows all at the same time, I understood how a murder victim must feel during a frenzied knife attack; my stamina and strength were fading fast, as I fought to defend myself from a fatal stab, or life finishing blow from the tomahawk.
If I had been an actor playing out a scene in a Hollywood movie, or in program made for TV, then I would have come up with a fantastic martial arts move, which won the day. Alternatively a novel hero, whom it appears, is a super-soldier capable of killing his enemies by just using a thumb. Even if I had been capable of using these far fetched, unbelievable magical methods, my left thumb was in a bad way from the tomahawk blow, and my other hand was busy trying to grab at my attacker’s knife wielding hand.
The Marine Corps taught us some great self-defense moves; no doubt about that, and they may have proved very handy in a more controlled situation. However, they taught only one form of self-defense move when unarmed, and then attacked by a battle crazed nut wielding a knife and tomahawk, and that was to run, just as fast as your legs could carry you. Don’t look back, nor trip. Similar to running from a bear in the woods, except trying to keep some self respect and not scream, unless caught. If caught, and can stay on your feet, you may just have a chance to break away, and start running again. But once down on the ground, your defense becomes extremely limited, as it was in my situation.
When on the ground and someone is on top of you slashing and stabbing away, your immediate reaction is to limit the attack result by blocking with your hands and arms, trying to protect your vital organs and face. The size of your attacker can be a major hurdle to overcome, but it is frankly an irrelevance, as you must survive to win! It becomes a battle of wills, and stamina, rather than one of strength.
My attacker was smaller, and of lighter build than I, but I am no giant either, being considered small by American standards. But I was strong and fit in those days, and gave me just that modicum of an edge in trying to save my life.
As the next knife stab came, intended for my face, I just managed to dip my head sufficiently allowing my helmet to take the blow, and my attacker lost forward balance slightly as the knife whanged off the steel. Lifting my head again, the rim of my helmet accidentally caught him under the nose on the philtrum! Luck is luck, whatever shape it comes in, and you should always be grateful when it appears.
Had I not fastened my helmet before the assault on the clearing, which I seldom did, it would probably have been lost in the struggle. That accidental blow was sufficient enough to break his determination for a split second, and enable me to muster one last supreme effort, and kick him off me, and on to his a*s!
Rather than come back at me before I could recover sufficiently for a more spirited defense, he jumped to his feet sporting a spectacular nose bleed, which had resulted from his nose encountering my helmet, and ran off towards the far side of the clearing after his retreating buddies, who were doing a controlled fighting withdrawal. Then off into the elephant grass he went. Sitting there with legs outstretched, and so physically fu*ked I couldn’t even find sufficient energy to pull over my pistol, as it lay there not a foot from me, and fire it at the little fu*ker as he ran after his buddies.
I have absolutely no explanation as to why he did not press home his advantage, for it must have been obvious to him that I was seriously on my chinstrap, and vulnerable from the damage to my hand. It could have been that he had felt vulnerable being out in that open clearing, and fighting alone, whilst his buddies took to the cover of the head-high elephant grass, either trying to make good their escape or re-group for a counter-attack. Then again, his nose must have been blindingly painful. Regardless of the reason, I was mighty thankful for it, as I was when no counter attack materialized.
If you could, you had to sort yourself out after being wounded. Otherwise, whoever got to you first would help you. Lightly wounded men, such as I was, could carry on fighting once treated, and were actively encouraged to do so. An encouraging word from a medic could get them going again, but sometimes it could take some physical encouragement like pushing, slapping, or a good kick up the a*s to motivate them.
Self-help for me came in the form of making up a strong saline solution from my salt tablets and water bottle contents, and dowsing my wounds with it as a hopeful preventative measure against infection. Then I stuffed my hand into a semi-clean sock, and strapped up the whole thing with electrical tape. Most of our guys carried a roll of it for tailoring, or repairing gear. My hand now looked as if it were encased in a winter mitt, but I have to say that I was really quite proud of my fist-aid effort, as not being a combat medic.
Squad commanders briefing, pre deliberate attack, Plain of Reeds, Vietnam, 1967.
Once more we were out in the boonie working with the South Vietnamese Marines on one of their expeditions into the Plain of Reeds. There were two other Mike boats in our little attack flotilla, both of which were the standard troop and cargo humpers who were carrying the main attack force. That area of the plain was thick with tall elephant grass infested with large red ants and mosquitoes. The stagnant, putrid water was nearly heaving with leeches.
Peering out through our cover within the elephant grass, and into the man-made clearing, it was the first close look I had of North Vietnamese Regulars. These enemy grunts appeared tough and fit, looked disciplined, and were armed with new Chi-com, Chinese Communist, AK rifles. Their fighting gear, uniforms and pith helmets well cared for. In essence, this time we would be up against properly trained, and dedicated, soldiers.
I caught some movement out the corner of my eye, but it was only our squad’s gunner squirming into position with his M60 light machine gun, digging his toes in against the weapon recoil, which would come once he started to fire.
He was lying in a little watery dip in the swampy ground, a good natural weapons position which reduced his ground profile to practically zero. However, he was soaking up water like a sponge, and probably collecting leeches at the same time. Anyway, adrenalin always overcame discomfort before an anticipated fire-fight. His only other companions, besides the leaches, were red ants and the ever present mosquitoes, the usual cloud of determined insects that seemed to follow us everywhere when we took to the land.
The M60’s gunner, just like all the others waiting to attack ignored their annoyance, and did not react to, or swat at them. To the trained eye, even the slightest movement can be spotted. So breathing shallow, we lay there, under cover, letting the leaches, red ants, and mosquitoes feast away on us. But better a drop of blood to them, than a bleed-out to an enemy weapon round hit.
It was late afternoon when two young NVA grunts, that looked no more than fifteen years of age, began walking towards our cover, as if without a care in the world. The M60 gunner, hidden from their view, must have been waiting in hope that they would about turn and head off the other way. Alas, it was not to be. He waited until the strolling pair were no more than 100 yards from him, and then opened fire. One of the NVA grunts was hit in the lower abdomen, the other on the point of his left shoulder, which spun him into his now crumpling buddy.
As always in these situations, there was a second of complete silence after the machine gun fired, almost as if the world was holding its breath, then mayhem erupted!
The NVA grunts, who had been hit by the M60’s burst of fire, started screaming. Their buddies in the clearing, who had stood like statues in a park when the automatic weapon had fired, came to life, and started firing their weapons in all directions, unsure of the exact direction from where the attack threat was coming.
In that split second of indecision on their part we had already taken advantage and were up on our feet. Running forward, we began firing by instinct at any target that suddenly presented itself. Trying to avoid hitting any S V Marines, or our own guys, if possible, as the attack force flooded into the clearing.
I could see that the inevitable one-on-one fighting had already started, as the NVA tried to make a fighting withdrawal, and the SV Marines being just as determined to stop them. Personal survival, being of the utmost in the mind, made these small individual battles extremely vicious. Each man trying to gain the upper hand over his opponent by kicking, punching, biting, and using any weapon available to hand, even helmets.
In these skirmishes, if one of your opponent’s buddies ran past, he would fire at you, or slash with a fighting knife to assist. Otherwise, if left to the original gladiatorial pair, they were fought to a standstill, either through exhaustion on either side, or the death of one, or both, of the combatants. Just as in a games arena of ancient Rome.
To any passerby, these struggles would probably have resembled a Saturday night drunken fight, resulting from idiots spilling from bars into the highway, completely wrecked out of their skulls from the consumption of alcohol, and full of fighting bullsh*t. However, these particular personal little battles were by far more deadly.
A hard faced NVA non-com, with a Nagant revolver in his hand, and ignoring the stray rounds that were flying around looking for a non-intended target, was standing bawling at his men. It seemed to me that he was trying to form a fighting withdrawal line, exactly as any other non-com would have done.
The last thing a commander wants, regardless of rank status, is a mad scramble of the herd to the rear, and possibly beyond. Anyway, you can never tell if the fight could be turned around, for it is all about judgment. He obviously had no reserve squads to bring into play, or he would have by then. We had, still in the cover of the elephant grass and witnessing the spectacle of their buddies in a life or death struggle, and praying that they wouldn’t be required, this time!
He may just as well have been shouting at the wind, due to the battle din. That din was made up from, people shouting and screaming orders, or in pain, machinegun and rifle fire, detonating grenades and the dull thump of pistols being used at close range. At so close range people’s clothing smoldered as a result of a pistol’s muzzle flash, after it was pressed into their torso when fired
Pistols were immediately discarded after having a “smoke-stack”, or other form of blockage, rendering them useless until cleared. You simply didn’t have time to fu*k about trying to clear any weapon of a blockage; you just brandished it in the way a medieval club would have been, or dropped it. If discarding was the choice, then pulling your bayonet or fighting knife from its sheath you got back at it, full of fighting madness!
The NVA non-com, in obvious frustration at his orders not being heard, or disobeyed, fired his revolver at a fighting pair, hitting a SV Marine in the back of the head. Unfortunately, the heavy round from the revolver traveled straight through and smashed into the face of the NVA grunt the Marine was struggling with. Both went down immediately like pole-axed cattle!
At that instant from my left a figure ran at me. As I turned to fire, he came in at me unchecked like a football lineman would, and hit me hard knocking the wind out of me. As I went sprawling from his body check my rifle flew from my grasp. Scrambling on to my back, and at the same time trying to pull my pistol, my attacker was on me in a flash! With a knife in one hand, and a US La Gana tomahawk in the other, in all probability a battlefield find, he started to slash and hack at me with the ferocity of the demented!
I dropped my pistol in the rush to free it from its holster, just as a swinging blow from the tomahawk cut deeply at the base of my left thumb, and a knife stab went into the muscle at the side of the palm. As I tried frantically to fend off the attack with my left hand, his knife blade made a deep cut on the inside of that wrist, just missing a vein. All of this was going on as I groped away frantically for my pistol with the right hand! In that instant I was already starting to lose the fight, so abandoned the pistol idea to one of defense only.
Kicking trying to dislodge my attacker, who had a leg grip on me like a professional wrestler, and trying to grab for the knife, also fending off more attempted tomahawk blows all at the same time, I understood how a murder victim must feel during a frenzied knife attack; my stamina and strength were fading fast, as I fought to defend myself from a fatal stab, or life finishing blow from the tomahawk.
If I had been an actor playing out a scene in a Hollywood movie, or in program made for TV, then I would have come up with a fantastic martial arts move, which won the day. Alternatively a novel hero, whom it appears, is a super-soldier capable of killing his enemies by just using a thumb. Even if I had been capable of using these far fetched, unbelievable magical methods, my left thumb was in a bad way from the tomahawk blow, and my other hand was busy trying to grab at my attacker’s knife wielding hand.
The Marine Corps taught us some great self-defense moves; no doubt about that, and they may have proved very handy in a more controlled situation. However, they taught only one form of self-defense move when unarmed, and then attacked by a battle crazed nut wielding a knife and tomahawk, and that was to run, just as fast as your legs could carry you. Don’t look back, nor trip. Similar to running from a bear in the woods, except trying to keep some self respect and not scream, unless caught. If caught, and can stay on your feet, you may just have a chance to break away, and start running again. But once down on the ground, your defense becomes extremely limited, as it was in my situation.
When on the ground and someone is on top of you slashing and stabbing away, your immediate reaction is to limit the attack result by blocking with your hands and arms, trying to protect your vital organs and face. The size of your attacker can be a major hurdle to overcome, but it is frankly an irrelevance, as you must survive to win! It becomes a battle of wills, and stamina, rather than one of strength.
My attacker was smaller, and of lighter build than I, but I am no giant either, being considered small by American standards. But I was strong and fit in those days, and gave me just that modicum of an edge in trying to save my life.
As the next knife stab came, intended for my face, I just managed to dip my head sufficiently allowing my helmet to take the blow, and my attacker lost forward balance slightly as the knife whanged off the steel. Lifting my head again, the rim of my helmet accidentally caught him under the nose on the philtrum! Luck is luck, whatever shape it comes in, and you should always be grateful when it appears.
Had I not fastened my helmet before the assault on the clearing, which I seldom did, it would probably have been lost in the struggle. That accidental blow was sufficient enough to break his determination for a split second, and enable me to muster one last supreme effort, and kick him off me, and on to his a*s!
Rather than come back at me before I could recover sufficiently for a more spirited defense, he jumped to his feet sporting a spectacular nose bleed, which had resulted from his nose encountering my helmet, and ran off towards the far side of the clearing after his retreating buddies, who were doing a controlled fighting withdrawal. Then off into the elephant grass he went. Sitting there with legs outstretched, and so physically fu*ked I couldn’t even find sufficient energy to pull over my pistol, as it lay there not a foot from me, and fire it at the little fu*ker as he ran after his buddies.
I have absolutely no explanation as to why he did not press home his advantage, for it must have been obvious to him that I was seriously on my chinstrap, and vulnerable from the damage to my hand. It could have been that he had felt vulnerable being out in that open clearing, and fighting alone, whilst his buddies took to the cover of the head-high elephant grass, either trying to make good their escape or re-group for a counter-attack. Then again, his nose must have been blindingly painful. Regardless of the reason, I was mighty thankful for it, as I was when no counter attack materialized.
If you could, you had to sort yourself out after being wounded. Otherwise, whoever got to you first would help you. Lightly wounded men, such as I was, could carry on fighting once treated, and were actively encouraged to do so. An encouraging word from a medic could get them going again, but sometimes it could take some physical encouragement like pushing, slapping, or a good kick up the a*s to motivate them.
Self-help for me came in the form of making up a strong saline solution from my salt tablets and water bottle contents, and dowsing my wounds with it as a hopeful preventative measure against infection. Then I stuffed my hand into a semi-clean sock, and strapped up the whole thing with electrical tape. Most of our guys carried a roll of it for tailoring, or repairing gear. My hand now looked as if it were encased in a winter mitt, but I have to say that I was really quite proud of my fist-aid effort, as not being a combat medic.