Chapter 6

In June of 1969, our major task in Quang Tin Province was to try and intercept the food and ammo supplies of the 2nd NVA regiment. They had recruited, trained and equipped the 10th VC Battalion to do nothing but insure their food supply.

Their rice paddies were mostly in the Song Thein river valley. These paddies were tended by the 10th and guarded by an antiaircraft battery equipped with .51s and RPGs. In trying to deny them their food supply, we had lost a dozen or so loaches and 5 kia in less than one month.

They tended the fields mostly at night, when we were, of course, grounded. They had gotten so desperate by the end of the month that they had no choice but to work in the fields early in the morning.

One morning when on a first light mission, I and Bill Byers (whom I was training as a scout) came across a field being planted. There were approximately 20 people in the field; mostly older men and women. When they saw us approaching low level, they quickly headed for their bunkers. All except one old man.

He looked up, then went back to his work. I gave the controls to Bill, and told him to fly right up to the old VC. He stood up, and looked defiantly at me. I took out my .38 and pointed it at him. He still didn't budge. I had the gun cocked, but I'm not sure if I intended to kill him or not. I heard the report of the gun and saw a fountain of

blood squirting from his neck.

He fell like a pole axed tree, and I watched as a pool of blood formed in the water above where his body had disappeared.

To us, he was just another VC kill, to be celebrated at the bar that night. In retrospect, he was simply an old man who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was never a "killing machine". I killed somewhere between 30 and 35 men, women and children, but neither enjoyed it nor took pride in it. Those I killed were simply unlucky enough to be in my sights in one way or another. They were no more nor less evil than me. I killed them to keep them from killing me, my crew, or other American or allied troops, and because that was what I was taught to do.

I never allowed my platoon to "keep score". I think I saved their lives by teaching them that killing the enemy was, while usually important, secondary to gaining intelligence on the enemy. My platoon was famous for the battles we started (Hamburger Hill and Hill 376, for two) and the intelligence that we gave to division G2.

What I am left with is the sure knowledge that I killed real people, not inanimate objects. I killed most of them close up, and could see their faces most of the time. I still remember their faces. They visit me sometimes when I am lying in bed, either sleeping or trying to fall asleep. They ask me why I killed them. They are coming down a trail at

me, and their faces are questioning me. They ask me; did I have to kill them? Do I know they had a family back home? How is my life, the one I have and they don't?

That last question is one I can't answer.

My first killing was very necessary, but it still haunts me. It was in Elephant Valley just south of the Ashau. I was covering the advance of a group of tanks who were moving to a new firebase in the Ashau. I was hovering around looking through the small pepper trees on the edge of a forest. I noticed a spider hole a few feet from the road. As I

approached it, an NVA road watcher suddenly popped up. I quickly turned toward him. He held his rifle on his shoulder, and I could see his face clearly. He set his sights on me just as I got in position with my minigun.

I watched the rifle jerk as he flinched, so I knew he had squeezed the trigger. His gun jammed or misfired. In the next half second, I made the decision to squeeze my trigger. He was maybe 10 feet away. I held the trigger for a full 3 second burst. 150 rounds found their mark. His whole upper body disappeared in a blizzard of blood. All that was left to fall back into the spider hole were his legs. My canopy was covered with blood.

What haunts me about this are two things. First, what if his gun hadn't jammed or misfired? The gun was never recovered that I knew of, so I will never know why it didn't fire. I guess my day just hadn't come. The second thing is the terrible brutality of the weapon I had at my fingertips. To watch someone simply disappear is frightening, and

guaranteed to make one think.

Everyone tried to get me drunk that night, but I never did drink much,

so I was still thinking about it as I went to sleep. I haven't quit thinking about it.