ANNEX 3-8

Headquarters Company, First Tanks

A recollection by Stephen Falk, Sergeant, USMC

The First Tank Battalion, a unit of the First Marine Division, had the Southern Sector Defense of I Corps as its Tactical Area of Responsibility [TAOR].  This reality had many implications for the members of Headquarters and Service Company [H&S.]  The most significant was that our company had numerous combat responsibilities because of the battalion’s TAOR.

The three “gun” companies, namely A [Alpha], B [Bravo], and C [Charlie] had a vast array of support missions to the various infantry regiments of the 1st Division, as well as other American, and occasionally ARVN units operating in I Corps. Some platoons or smaller units were “attached” to specific units.  The companies themselves were stationed in various locations away from H&S and Battalion command. Alpha had remained in Chu Lai, then later went up North. Bravo was at Hill 41, then Hill 55. Charlie Company was headquartered near Marble Mountain.

The specific responsibilities of Headquarters were divided as follows. Staff section [S-1] had the responsibility for personnel assignment, records, and Military Justice: the legal department and the Adjutant’s office. Intelligence [S-2] was responsible for military intelligence and the coordination of such information with other units. Combat Operations [S-3], as the name implies, coordinated the actual operations...those requested in support of the 1st Division operations, those in support of units to which tanks were attached, those that were part of the “winning the war,” and those of the Southern Sector Defense Command. Logistics [S-4] had the responsibility of everything else...well everything else except  the Civilian Action Platoon [S-5], a group whose mission was to interact with indigenous Vietnamese in order that they could tell we were the “good guys.”

Part of the heritage of the Marine Corps is that ALL Marines are riflemen first.  Drawing on this, each level of command has at its disposal the services of additional infantry whenever needed, or whenever wanted, or whenever it suited the purposes of those in command. Any Marine with a military occupational specialty other than 0311 [infantryman] who arrived in Vietnam expecting to work only in that occupation was terribly missing reality.

For those of us in the staff sections of H&S each day was open to irregular assignments. Quite regularly we had a nighttime rotation of duties.  These included guard duty [assignment to one of the nine bunker spread around the compound as a defensive perimeter]; patrol [usually a squad-sized group which, under the cover of darkness, roved the villes and rice paddies of the adjacent areas outside the wire searching for Viet Cong [VC] or other enemy activity]; and ambush - a handful of Marines who established a covert place  from which to surprise any enemy operating in and around our CP. We usually got the fourth night to ourselves.

Quite a number of combat operations were deployed on a larger scale.  Many of these had names, such as Arizona, Union, or Union 2 if we were trying again.  These operations, which might be sweeps, search and destroy, or blocking missions were plentiful, and called us away from any staff duties we otherwise might have had.  During these, we were grunts, facing enemy fire, automatic weapons, mortars, RPGs, anything. In one such operation, we were chasing Charlie and close air support rendered our advance impassable as the F-14s dropped  napalm close enough to feel the heat and smell the smell.  We crawled into tunnels, searched indigenous Vietnamese hooches, schools, and combed endless rice paddies.

We were always responsible to back up our gun companies in whatever ways they needed. One particular mission found me riding “shotgun” on a fuel tanker heading out to Bravo to refuel a platoon of tanks that had heavily engaged a VC group and were overrun. Our tankers had to fire upon the other tanks using antipersonnel flischette rounds to drive the enemy away.  Several of the tanks ran out of fuel during this action.  The road out to Elephant Valley was filled with enemy activity and I fired my M-14 often as we encountered both small arms and mortars...launched by women in the tree line.

H&S personnel also provided security at other nearby locations including the Route One bridge and an outpost along Route One going to Hill 55.  This further outpost was established on a hillcrest about four or five hundred yards from the Danang River. Elevated perhaps 70 feet above the water, it provided not only a good look, it also brought us into contact with the enemy who sought to transport various munitions and supplies into Danang.  Transport out to that post was on the tank sent for the same purpose, and that itself also brought a sense of adventure.  The skill of the 0811’s blew enemy operatives and their rafts out of the water.  it was also the scene of at least one panther or leopard spotting as revealed by the M48’s xenon light.

Outpost duty was never a cakewalk, and produced several incidents of thoughtful diversion as well as, perhaps comic relief.  Often the detachment was filled by ARVNs, with whom we shared duties. The ordinary assignment was that, centered on the tank, we had foxholes about the perimeter, each staffed with two Marines and one ARVN.  Being set on the hillcrest, a semi-permanent barbwire ensnarement was circled about the hill at the rice paddy level.  As was the custom, empty soda and beer cans, each with a few pebbles in them, were set about the taut wire so as to render a clinking warning should anyone or anybody disturb the perimeter.  One such night, Gary “Gums” Gdula and I shared one of the foxholes. We thought we adequately instructed our ARVN counterpart on procedure, and I took the first watch.  The ARVN would be next, then Gums. Sometime in the middle of my sleep, I felt a hand on my mouth and struggled to wake and found Gums with one hand on my mouth while his other was to his mouth signaling quiet.  I had been on sweeps and guard duty and under fire with Gums, I trusted him, and so complied.  He whispered that the ARVN fell asleep during his watch and had left us unprotected.  As he slept, Gary and I got on either side of him and, on Gums’ signal of 1,2,3, grabbed him and threw him down the hill and into the wire.  As designed the warning cans gave off their alarms.  The ARVN, realizing he was now in a free-fire area, flailed his arms and screamed and ran back up the hill.  Mercifully, Gumsy didn’t shoot him. I later wished we had had a stop watch knowing that ARVN set a world’s land speed record on his ascent. Based on our report, [we did not include our part in the ARVN’s fall] methods were changed and no longer were Marines left at the mercy of sleeping allies.

On another night going to the outpost, as our Yankee tank crew sped full speed downhill, about 38 miles per hour, which, hanging on to the fenders or whatever else we could grab on the outside, seemed very fast, we approached  a half-moon road segment.  The half-moon broke down to the left then circled up again to the right as the road rose again to a new crest. While in the midst of the downhill, an ARVN 6-by began its descent from the opposing crest, virtually on a crash course.  Both vehicles would doubtlessly meet at the lowest point if nothing were done...The ARVN driver apparently knew he had met his match and, not anxious to meet his Maker, steered off the road and down the flank of the hill.  We never stopped and I can’t report any other details. Damn!, that truck bounced in ways far beyond one’s normal imagination could picture it. The rest of the night was uneventful.

We encountered large scale operations of various types, both offensive and defensive.  Rocket attacks on the Danang Air Base and the other facilities in our area became widespread and particularly ominous. The rockets were fired from a multitude of places without the sophistication of American fire bases.  We could hear the launchings, usually in the depth of night, and could hear with certainty the incoming rounds. Only when an explosion rocked somewhere else were we sure THAT particular round would not harm us. Undoubtedly, the Tet Offensive of 1968  was the single most deadly and destructive battle in which we participated.

All combat Marines know the value of our training.  We  know about Tradition....Honor...and Courage.  We know RHIP.  We know quite a bit about leadership and respect. We know, or learn to know about whom we trust, and why we trust.  About a week or so into my thirteen months I was assigned to the nightly patrol.  I was assigned the radio, though not a comm guy.  The patrol leader was a sergeant whose name I do not recall.  This was not my first patrol, but I was glad to know that, because of the radio, I would be near  the Sarge.  We went out the back gate and circled off to the right then back around to left heading for the small ville between our CP and the Navy POL [petroleum, oil, and lubricants] several hundred yards away. Suddenly we came under sniper fire! Everyone dropped quickly and established a defensive posture. Hey, this is basic. That is everyone dropped EXCEPT the Sarge.  He turned this way and that muttering “Where are they? Where are they?”  As I realized what was happening, I grabbed his pant leg and pulled him down to safety. I might have saved his life, maybe the next sniper round would have missed anyway.  At any rate, I came to understand that the one guy I was counting on wasn’t going to do me any good.  I realized I instinctively knew better than he...and that I KNEW NOTHING.  Suddenly I was frightened.  Nobody said anything beyond factual report of the sniper[s].  I don’t remember the sergeant’s name, but I was certain never to trust him again.

On the rare nights we had “off,” we  were privileged to have a few options.  Our CP had an enlisted club. Beer was often rationed to two each, so getting drunk was not one of the options.  We also had an open air movie theater.  Movies were a great distraction, though there was more than a sense that we didn’t get first-run Broadway smashes.  Interestingly, one afternoon of a day I was supposed to have the night off, I learned that “The Ten Commandments” was the movie for that night.  Released in 1956, this was no first run, but I had never seen it and planned to enjoy it.  Before long, however, I was assigned to lead the ambush that night. Now I was both experienced and comfortable about the assignment, but hated the timing. Before dark I led my squad out the rear gate and established  an emplacement that would serve well as an ambush site. That is, it would have served well if I hadn’t wanted to see the film.  After dark I radioed in that we had “movement in a nearby area,” and requested to open fire despite the unknown circumstances.  I knew that such permission would not be granted, and was next instructed to investigate further.  My squad knew my intentions, Marines are tight. After a few moments, I radioed that the movement and noise came from goats.  Headquarters told me to resume assignment, but I protested that our secrecy had been compromised and requested permission to return to base.  That request was granted and we got back in time to see the film.  Mea culpa, mea culpa.

The Civil Action group had some interesting assignments. Lt. Ray was the CAP officer for at least part of the time I was there. Danny Phenniger and “Lump” Guarino were part of the team. These guys did some good, I’m sure.  They interfaced with local schools and ran health clinics that treated the locals for a wide variety of maladies.  They provided health care and instructions for healthier lives.  I think they were responsible for those fliers that graphically informed people not to piss upstream of water used for everyday living. One big  project sponsored by our guys was to build a shower facility for one of the villes.  This involved not only the technology, but also the procurement of materials.  This was major in that step one was a means to pump water to a storage tank, and also included the plumbing, as well as the shed structure.  There was a “grand opening” ceremony with officers from Division HQ and local dignitaries, and the hoi polloi.  Many of us were assigned security for the day. It was grand.  A few weeks later I was on a sweep that moved through that village.  I was surprised to see that the locals had moved their hogs into the shower shed.  I guess the locals thought that a better use for such a fine structure.

I mentioned that S-4 was “everything else.” Housing, supply, motor transport, tank maintenance, food, medical, transportation, and the coordination of all-the-above were included in S-4 concerns and authority.  When I arrived as 0411, logisticsman, in January of ‘67, I was warmly greeted for several reasons.  First, I was a “real” 0411.  Clint Reynolds and Tom “OB” O’Brien, the two S-4 guys were happy to have a new, junior guy to give all the report work typing.  S-4 does a lot of reports. Unfortunately for them, I couldn’t type other than hunt and peck.  I was slower than imaginable, and our S-4, Major “Buck” Crudup didn’t like that at all. Realizing I could not type and wasn’t going to miraculously learn, he soon had “OB” and Clint back to the keyboard. I was also assigned as the Four shop driver. I began to get out and about with the Major...and also was loaned out to others who needed a ride.  Gunny Lawless was also in S-4.

Gunny Lawless did not have a secret clearance. The rest of us did.  One incident I’ll not forget was months later, in December of 1967. Bob Hope was taking his USO show to various stops in Nam for Christmas. The movement and schedule of the shows were transmitted as SECRET.  The word first came in to the Command Bunker, home of S-2 and S-3.  It quickly spread among those with clearance.  That was not the first time we  would talk animatedly and abruptly stop as Gunny approached. He’d ask what was going on and we would reply “Sorry, Gunny,...classified.” He’d get pissed off and walk away, and we’d begin again, even if we had nothing to say to each other, just to torque his jaws.

At one point, Gunny Lawless was sent TAD to Red Beach Supply Center.  His duty was to survey  hundreds, maybe thousands of crates of material and supplies that were mismarked or misplaced or unlabeled.  I got a call from him one day. He told me to get a six-by from Motor T and lead it out to Red Beach to see him.  I did, and when we arrived he had a twenty cubic foot shipping crate loaded into the six-by.  We discovered we had twenty cubic feet of Ray Ban sunglasses which, in those days, sold for about twenty dollars a pair.  It was a veritable fortune. Everyone got sunglasses and we had plenty to trade for whatever else we could get. A good Gunny takes care of his own.

I became the Battalion Scrounger.  It doesn’t sound like much, but I assure you it was quite a responsibility, and I was good at it.  This talent became something I would use the rest of my life.  Basically, S-4 was the place to get what was needed. Another basic...the Marine Corps supply system doesn’t always have what one needs. What is a scrounger?  One who will beg, borrow, trade, or steal to get what he needs to get.

My biggest failure? I was so proud.  We always were looking for a decent sized, well-operating generator for our CP. The Table of Equipment [TE] listed exactly what the Corps said we needed to operate.  The TE did NOT list everything we thought we needed, nor did it come close.  If I remember, the TE said we needed a 4KW generator. We had a 7KW that was painted blue and marked USAF when I arrived. One mission was to get a bigger one. I was in Danang at the airbase one day to pick something up, something now forgotten, when I saw it. On a brand new, deuce and a half flatbed sat a brand new 15KW generator.  It was sitting there in the sun, and I knew it would be mine. My plan, get in the truck and drive it back to the CP. I got to a field phone and called the motor pool. “Have OD paint ready and the stencils to change this from US Army  white markings to USMC yellow.  I called the Major and told him what I was planning. “Bring it home,” he said. I studied the area, the people, everything that was going on about me. Nobody, nothing seemed to have any interest in the truck. Finally, I blessed myself and began to move in. Just as I got to the vehicle, some soldier bounced in, said hello, jumped into the truck and drove off. I had lost it.

My biggest trade. We needed heavy equipment in the CP to resurface the road paths, to move soil, and to dig some entrenchments.  I headed off to Red Beach, to the SeaBees. Talking to a CPO there, he told me he could arrange it, BUT...what was in it for him and his men? I didn’t know, but was willing to listen.  Well he and his guys were sleeping on field cots [the fold-up, hard-as-a-rock things one would only expect in a Red Cross disaster shelter. They needed something better! I knew if anything of any type was better, the Air Force would have it.  I headed to Danang.  I located a master sergeant who let me know that, in fact, his guys just got Hollywood beds, and, indeed, their old bunks were available. BUT...what was in it for them? I asked what they needed. It seemed that, by that time, the Army, SeaBees, and Marines were wearing jungle [he called  them fatigues, but we know they are] utilities. He wanted enough for himself and his friends.S-4 has more than a little pull over Supply, so I ventured to get a few dozen sets of jungle utilities.  I led a five-ton over to Danang and dropped the utilities off and picked up the bunks and mattresses. Next stop: Red Beach.  Delighted with their new sleeping apparatus, the SeaBees were out to do our resurfacing the next day. Scrounging at its best.

Not every encounter with ARVNs was negative.  Returning by foot from a major operation and having not slept for days, and not eaten anything but C-rats, we came across a small group of ARVNs.  They smiled and seemed friendly enough, so we stopped to ask what they were doing.  Somehow we managed to figure they were about to go fishing...and that the local fish were good. Seeing they had no rods nor reels, we were curious. Their method was? Find the right, deep pool adjacent to the river and throw in a concussion grenade. BOOM! Up come the fish. Grab what you can and bring them home to fry.

The local markets were fascinating...fascinating in that there was nothing for sale that I would eat.  Once while on a patrol through the local ville, my eyes caught a gleam of something curious to look upon. Shimmering shades of green, purple,, magenta, and blue stopped me in my tracks. I reached down to examine this wonder when the multitudinous FLIES which had descended on a local woman’s fish all took to flight together. I retched...and never again allowed my curiosity to guide my hands in a Vietnamese market.

July 3rd, 1967 found me driving Lt. Tabor out to Hill 55. He had a plan that included a fish fry that night. Such food! White fish, shellfish, crabs...everything. It was a good time, many beers. Officers had a way of extending things if they wished, and we stayed on the next night. From good to better? No. The next night Hill 55 was shelled heavily.  In addition, there were attempts to overrun the compound. Heavy fighting, but secure defense positions turned the tide and made for an interesting ride home.

At the time I enlisted in the Marine Corps, there was only one other guy from Northvale, N.J. who was in the Corps.  His name was Dennis Walters, but I hadn’t seen him since he went in, and had no idea where he was stationed. After a week or so in-country, I managed to get a ride up to the Hill 327 PX near First Division Headquarters. As I walked into the PX, Dennis was walking out. Who would’ve believed it?

I know our life seemed so much easier than the lives of Marine grunts.  Sometimes it seemed crazy to be in the midst of a war, risking our lives, open to enemy fire and attack, yet have a place to sleep and space that was our own.  Of course we only slept there every third or fourth night, but it was there.  We certainly made an effort to mark our territory. Everyone had a picture or two hanging on the wall. Many, if not most of the guys had music.  There undoubtedly were more reel-to-reel tape decks in our huts than anywhere else by population density.  I lived in Hut 4.There were some guys in and out, but I remember when it came down to eight guys. Clint had rotated home, but “OB” was still there. Monte [Carmine Montemarano] was, no doubt, from Brooklyn. He was the XO’s driver, originally a Motor T guy.  Kenny Morrissey was the CO’s driver and from Connecticut. Jim Swinnie was from California, Bob Veach from Illinois, Kent Harter, the S-2 driver, though a tanker, Dale Welker was also with us. What a great guy. I learned in 2012 that Dale spent twenty years in the Corps, including other war zone activity, and retired as a Gunnery Sergeant.  He passed away in 2003. rest in Peace my Brother.

Hut 4 had a table with benches, and around payday each month, we had a card game. I never gambled, but sold refreshments.  We were supplied by the cooks. Red Corcoran always made sure I had fresh eggs and a big ham.  He did that in order that I take care of his evening hunger.  He cooked for all of us, but hated to cook for himself.  We had a refrigerator for the food and cold drinks.  We had an electric frypan.  I could cook myriads of dishes in a frying pan in those days. Somehow, we had a television.  Of course, in these days of cable and hundreds of channels, it is hard to imagine one channel...and that one only on a few hours each day: Armed Forces Network.

We were tight with the guys in Hut 3 and those in Hut 5, the headquarters company tankers. Though the TO [Table of Organization] called for the flame tanks to be part of H&S, I believe, in Vietnam, they were assigned to the gun companies. Yankee 51 and Yankee 52 were often parked next to our hut.  there were some great Marines among those crews. I don’t remember all their names, Larry Zuley, Tom Baranski, Leslie Dalton, Duane Stanley, Dave Farriner, and Will Collins were among them.  There  was also a young Pilipino named Mike, whom I’ll never forget. That’s another story. Their platoon leader was Bob Fontenot, a great guy from Louisiana. He was Cajun and really kind.

The S-1 and S-2 guys were in Hut 3. Anyone who remembers such things will recall Joe Vernon in his California whiter-than-white tee shirt and his Motown music. George Schleiben, and Josh Santana [though some guys called him Joe], Mike Hermes, Louis Fox, and RB Cheney lived there with Richard “Dick” Kurtz from Trenton, N.J. Jim Sefrhans was a Hut 3 guy, as well. Jim is a story by himself.

Frank Testa was the mailman.  He lived by himself in the mailroom; that is alone except for every Playboy centerfold from the past several years.  Frank seemed to do well living and working alone.  He was not easy to get to know, but when I did, I found quite likable. We became friends. He was from Massachusetts, like “OB” and Baransky. Frank must have done well, he was a sergeant by the time he caught a freedom bird.

I don’t know if anybody gave any tactical thought to it beforehand, but some indigenous Vietnamese decided to create a garbage dump across the road from our CP.  It was inherently sad to see kids picking through the garbage looking for food. Then came dysentery! It came fast and [I was going to say fast and hard, but in reality it was] loose. Everybody got the shits: Some more than others. Sick Bay was a blaze of activity for weeks.  The Corpsmen, as corpsmen always do, rose to the challenge. I hope it doesn’t sound like bragging, but I had the company record for most shits in 24 hours:23! The garbage dump was plowed over and discontinued.

It seems somewhat dark that defecating is among important memories, but when most days began with the ritual of pumping diesel into metal drums and igniting them, it seems to work. Who can forget the beautiful Vietnamese landscape in the morning with black clouds of burning fuel marking each Marine Corps CP?  Sometime, well into my thirteen months, we got a new first sergeant.  I’m glad I don’t remember his name because this guy was terrible.  He decided that Marines needed to stand formation every morning. As we were dismissed, he ordered everyone to participate in policing the CP.  He looked for garbage all day long and let us know about everything he found at the next company formation. It only took a few days for most Marines to be fed up. He also drank at the Staff NCO club and wandered the extremes of the CP wire afterwards in a drunken stupor. One night he walked into the wire and could have been shot. In fact Bunker Nine had their sights on him when they realized it was too much like murder.  Someone in the company retaliated another way. Whoever it was quickly got the title of Phantom Shitter. Each night that someone made sure to dump somewhere near the first sergeant’s hooch. Every morning we got the report that the Phantom had struck again. Our company CO, or perhaps one of the Staff Officers quickly realized that the tactics of the First Sergeant were untenable. I don’t remember if he was ordered TAD, or transferred, or just stopped showing up, but the morning formations were history, and so was the Phantom.

Along with Captain Joe Winther, our Company Commander, we had some other good officers, men with whom we were proud to serve. Many of the officers were transferred in and out of H&S, and back and forth to gun companies. Lt. Rod Henderson is memorable. I’m afraid I gave him the nickname “Lieutenant Fuzz” because, like the Beetle Bailey namesake, he looked like a high school kid.  He was both professional and friendly and, when sent to be a platoon leader, his men regarded him highly, as I did.  I mentioned Major Crudup, but I also served under Major John Schuyler as S-4. He, too, was a good leader and good guy. Our Battalion CO was Lt. Col. Robert “Rough House” Taylor. He was followed by the former XO, Major Gentile. Major Bob Croll was at various times our S-2 and S-3. He was a wonderful man.

I got to tell you about Bob Veach.  He was an Intelligence guy and worked in the Command Bunker. I remember well the day he reported for duty. As many of us had, Bob arrived exhausted,, probably having not slept in a few days.  He went to the S-2 to check in, and then was probably told to get some rest.  We had met him that morning, so I knew who he was, but it surprised me to find him on his bunk when I stopped to get something near midday.  My surprise turned to shock as I realized that this new guy lay motionless with his eyes opened!  I started shouting “Help, the new guy’s dead!” Guys came running, and Bob awoke! I’m not sure of how often he does it, if ever anymore, but there he was with his top eyelids barely covering the black of the iris, and I thought he was dead.  thank God he was not. Bob became a good friend and an important resident of Hut 4. We also learned he had some skill at cutting hair and he became our barber.

Kenton Arnold “Kent” Harter was another Californian who wore white-white t shirts.  He was Major Croll’s driver, though an 0811 by trade. Sometime after I rotated, Kent was sent to Bravo Company. Memorialized now on video disk, Kent once underwent the rigors of changing a flat tire on his Jeep.  This is only significant because he didn’t know what he was doing.  We, his brothers, gathered round in his time of need and laughed at him.  Major Croll came along with the Marine Corps Manual for changing tires, but it was actually an issue of Playboy, and the centerfold, though provocative, failed to produce any aid.

Though we helped provide security for the nearby Route One bridge, the VC managed to blow it up. The bridge originally served pedestrian, automobile and railroad traffic. The railroad seemed long gone, but this was both an important travel route for the Vietnamese and important tactically for U.S. I-Corps operations. Almost immediately work began on a replacement, a pontoon bridge off to the side from river bank to river bank.  That section of Route One was always a target for VC mines, and many of our vehicles met their fate there.

China Beach now has a “world class” golf course. One can view it online.  China Beach also housed a military hospital and, nearby, was the mortuary run by Army Graves Registration personnel. On two separate occasions we were given a day off to go to China Beach. The first such day came as complete surprise.  We were told to go to Supply to be issued camouflaged shorts and soon after boarded six bys for our trip. The South China Sea is beautiful at China Beach, and as a New Jersey kid, most Summers included trips to “The Shore.” Many of us rushed to get our jungle boots and shirts off as

we carefully secured our weapons and headed for the surf. The sand was hot. Not warm, it was hot. Burn your skin hot. Walking was not an option, so we began to run...fast. The beach was wide, the sand was HOT, but finally we dove into the water. The water was pretty hot. It was not refreshing. the only thing keeping us in the water was the reality that to get back to the shade, we had to cross the sand again.  i didn’t last long. The second run across the beach led me to a nice cold beer. We enjoyed the days there and passed our time talking, drinking, boxing, playing ball, and becoming human. I’m told that soon after I left Vietnam, the Army took over China Beach and it became an in-country R&R site. In fact, “OB” and Monte spent a few days there.

Our neighborhood air base, Danang, was often and regularly a target for attack and shelling. Sometime within my thirteen months it was first hit with rockets.  The rocket attacks were chilling. Though there was little one could tell about launch sites, we could clearly hear the launches and hear the eerie whine as they approached.  It was only when they landed someplace else that we knew that that round was not going to hit us.  They ALL sounded as if they would hit us. Danang was ablaze. Rocket after rocket hit their marks as planes, fuel, and munitions exploded.  We were Southern Sector Defense Command.  We were on the line. We prepared for attempts to overrun our positions and the nearby airfield. Many subsequent nights brought back the rockets. The targets were many, though mainly the airfield. More than once, back in New Jersey, I awoke screaming from my sleep. “Rockets! Rockets! Incoming!” That hasn’t gone away without effect.

One night a damaged B-52 tried to make an emergency landing at Danang. It crashed. It crashed short of the runway, went through a minefield and exploded many times from numerous causes and effects. We were on full alert all night. Security was breached. Lives were lost.  The flames illuminated the sky turning deep night into radiant light, light by which we could read easily, if we had something to read. Everything about that night was rather self-evident. Though we didn’t know the crew, they were our American dead.

Sniper fire from the ville between us and the POL was not a onetime occurrence. After repeated episodes, the I-Corps Southern Sector Command, whoever that or they was or were, decided the ville had to go. Land was given to those people merely hundreds of yards away...from our right flank to our front. From a cozy spot in the woods on a hill to a lowland spot adjacent to Route One.  With cooperation one wouldn’t find among Jersey homeowners, each hooch was taken down and carried, the roofs intact, to its new location. We followed their departure by going into their former ville, cutting down obstacles, and followed that with a flame tank burning out the brush. I don’t remember the Marine’s name who said he would instruct us on how to use an ax, raised it above his head and back, and brought it down swiftly into his own foot!

Part of the H&S family was the Maintenance crew. These men began with the transitioning of the CP from Chu Lai to that near Danang. That was in October, 1966, a few months before I arrived in country. They renewed or repurposed whatever was already there, if anything, and built new quarters, bunkers, and buildings.  The CP was constantly upgraded and improved. They maintained the generators, did the wiring, fixed the broken...whatever was broken. Lee Ullmer was an important part of that team. Lee was a tanker, but responded to the call for carpenter skills. From a family farm and cheese maker in Wisconsin, he is great friend and has exemplary character. Gary Felix is another of that team, and another fine friend, who later spent many years as a career firefighter. Though he later took Frank Testa’s job, he is most remembered as a man who gets things done. Texan Howard Bulak served with this group for a while, but only part time. Larry Nelson was another friend on this team. WR Turner, Carl Wolford, and Mickey Reese rounded them out.

Too many of us passed each other by either too quickly or in ways that are unclear. Ben “Preacher” Averett was a tanker and served in various other ways around H&S, then was gone. He is/was among the Latter Day Saints. Everyone liked him, but he seems untraceable. Stanley Klecz was in H&S briefly before going to Bravo.  He met his demise as a result of the tremendous dust and an amtrack. May he rest in peace. One of the nicest guys ever is Randall T. Brown from Tennessee. After a short time at H&S, he too, went to Bravo. No one took his place. John Ball was another Southerner. I swept many villes thankful he was there because he was a good Marine. Bill Swoebel seemed to just come and go. Sorry Bill, I don’t remember what you did. Guys named Schuring and Felch, Sgt. Gibbons and Roger Stevens were in S-1. John Morgenthaler was in S-2. J. Pat Hayes was from ‘Bama and worked in the Command Bunker. Top Maffioli proved career staff NCO’s were good people, as Lt. Tabor did the same for junior officers. Where did Lucian Moscinski go? And who was the big, red headed tow truck driver?  What a nice guy! I know Terry Wallach painted our Battalion sign, but that’s all I remember.

I returned to New Jersey in February of 1968, in the midst of the Tet Offensive. I married my high school sweetheart twelve days later. The end of my tour is likened to A Tale of Two Cities, the worst of times, the best of times. After completing my enlistment that July, I nearly died from a ruptured appendix. I started college in September and got my degree and teaching certificate in three years. I taught at Northern Valley Regional High School for thirty years, then retired. My wife Marcia and I have been married forty five years and have four children and four grandkids.

Steve Falk