THE DI AN DIARY--MEMOIRS FROM THE VIETNAM WAR/PART FOUR: GHOSTS ALONG THE RIVERS

The Di An Diary--Memoirs From The Vietnam War

Part Four: Ghosts Along The Rivers 

 

Situational map of the 2nd Brigade’s area of operations for the 1st Infantry Division.  Di An forward base 

Camp is in yellow.

Though my time in field operations was short, I write about it in detail because it is not something that I heretofore discussed in detail with friends or family.  I do, however, want to remind those interested that this was not a substantial part of my overall tour in the Vietnam War.  The greatest amount of my tour was spent in “the pit”, the Headquarters Tactical Operations bunker.  But, to continue with my recollections of long range recon, I provide these additional insights:

We operated in an area between the Song Saigon and the Song Dong Nai Rivers on a northern line from roughly Phu Cuong on the west, connecting eastward to the west bank opposite Bien Hoa.  Everything south of that line between the rivers through Thu Duc to an area northeast of Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City) made up one huge triangle for the 2nd Brigade to defend, as well as pursue and defeat the North Vietnamese and local Viet Cong. 

This is my last map I used in my field assignment;  ambushes, checkpoints, and LZs and PZs are “wiped”. The pink area is the northern portion of the Di An base camp, the Song Saigon (River) on the left, the Song Dong Nai (River) on the right.  This represents a very small part of our overall area of operations.

The big rivers were a major highway for large troop movements of North Vietnamese regulars and a conduit in which the Viet Cong used sampans to carry out their missions of ambush and sabotage. It was common for us to be concealed along the banks of these tributaries, unmoving for hours, swimming in sweat, waiting for opportunities to radio in coordinates for artillery strikes or, if the V.C. numbers were small, to “pop” the ambush ourselves.

Our area of operations in terms of terrain had a little of everything.  Half of the year the central countryside was a dustbowl with pines that reminded me of the slash pines of South Florida.   It was in this geography the base camp was situated just outside the village of Di An. There were areas of rice paddies that stretched around every small village and hamlet, and there were several rubber tree plantations that I can recall. During monsoon season, all of the above turned into acre after acre of mud.  Around the rivers, where most of our time on patrol was expended, was jungle and elephant grass.

Just outside the perimeter of the Di An forward base camp perimeter.  I took this photo returning from a patrol.  The pines were a primary feature for this section of our operations, but changed considerably around the rivers on the West and East and in the Northern portion. Acres around the basecamp were regularly defoliated with Agent Orange for security.

We only carried LRP rations (dehydrated food) and 2-3 canteens of water and often the patrol would last several days, and several times even longer. On one occasion we were on our own for close to a week. Unlike C rations used by most units in the field, our LRP rations were not in cans but pouches, and were much lighter for us to carry. Each pouch weighed only about 11 -12 ounces. The down side was that they required a lot of water to use, about a pint and a half or so, and that was a resource truly valued. 

Most of the meals required a heat source and the hexamine heat tabs provided for this purpose never effectively heated the meals enough for even our greedy palates.  So usually, unless in an area we knew to be OK for fire, they usually sustained some of their powder consistency for our evening meal.  I don’t remember all of the meals, but we hated the pork and scalloped potatoes which was commonly referred to as pork and shrapnel. Spaghetti and meatballs in tomato sauce were a favorite and chicken and rice were not bad at all. I also recall chili and beans and beef stew.

Occasionally we were able to supplement rations with food from friendly locals we bartered with. Anytime we traded the pork and potatoes (shrapnel) for steamed or fried rice, we felt like bandits. We usually weren’t too picky about whatever tiny morsels of flesh had been included in the concoctions. Occasionally the rice would be in what I surmised to be a fermented fish sauce that smelled horrible, but didn’t taste too bad. A ball of rice wrapped in a banana leaf would always keep, tucked away, and be moist and delicious at day’s end. And it required no fire, something we rarely indulged, and I have already spoken to the ineffectiveness of the hexamine heat tabs.

We kept our munitions and gear light because of our extended time on patrol. If we were not in ambush or observation mode we were moving. We carried M-16’s, a lighter but less efficient and reliable weapon than the M-14 I had used throughout my training and was most familiar with, and the NCO and most of the team a .45 pistol as well. One man always had an M-79 "Thumper', a grenade launcher.

We each had a couple of grenades, and several colored smoke canisters. One or two of the team would have phosphorous grenades that we used in the VC tunnel complexes.  These grenades burned oxygen and either suffocated the enemy inside, incinerated them, or caused evacuation. No more than two or three ammo pouches with  20 round magazines (the 30 round was not yet available in 1968) per man. I cannot recall with precision, but each pouch carried 5-6 magazines. We were not designed for extended engagement.

Usually we wore steel pots and liners, but, if doing lighter duty, such as interrogation we would don KP hats. Along with poncho we always had at least a couple of pairs of dry socks. We carried malaria pills and took salt tablets, as we were directed, daily. We had Dex tabs which some of the guys required to stay awake during night “lay down” or ambush.  Dog tags were wrapped with black electrical tape to prevent noise or reflection and a bootlace replaced the regulation issue chain through which they were threaded. Jewelry was never worn, watches always were pocketed and all insignia was subdued. As noted previously, even the Big Red One patch was replaced by the subdued Black One.

We were always hungry, always thirsty, always keenly alert, and always scared. Good scared. Our feet demanded our constant attention. Blisters and jungle rot were frequent companions for most of the guys, but I, at least, was spared a serious rot attack. We slept little, and often not at all in spite of long hours and many miles of walking during our daylight hours. We stayed off of established trails unless on a mission that authorized a Kit Carson Scout. Some of these men were Chieu Hois and had once been Viet Cong, and they helped immensely in knowing tactics, trails, and dangers on extended recons. But their former allegiances also made you keep one eye on the trail and one eye on the “Scout.” They did diminish the likelihood of a sniper setting up for our passage with their intricate knowledge of lesser traveled paths and trails, and also gave us better odds of avoiding panji traps and grenade traps.

Panji traps were usually pits that involved sharpened stakes either at the bottom or on the sides that closed over a leg like a jaw from either side. They were often poisoned with every form of animal and human offal imaginable. They were the most often encountered.  The victims of the trap almost never had injury that resulted in an immediate fatality, but any soldier so seriously impaled would be an anchor to the rest of the platoon, squad, or team deployed.  If they could not be evacuated by a dust-off immediately, those injured required assistance of several buddies until it was possible, the entire forward progress of the mission duly halted in all but the largest troop sweep. Though several were revealed during my time on recon, Fortunately I never had to witness a victim impaled by its devices.

Grenade traps were less common, but we avoided a couple at least. These had grenades with pins pulled and placed inside tin cans on each side of the trail or path to hold the pins in place. A thin wire was stretched from one grenade to the other across the path. Encountering the wire released the grenades from the opposing cans resulting in certain death and debilitation of all in the proximity. I never saw one detonated “in-situ” or I wouldn’t be alive today.  Instead, we cut the wire, notified Operations of a “fire-in-the-hole”, carefully removed the grenade from its metal sheath, tossed them as far as we could, and either got cover or ate dirt. One might wonder if that wouldn’t give away our position to nearby V.C.  The answer is the blast wasn’t as easy to pinpoint as a chopper landing precisely at our position with a demolition team.

Nighttime always meant we shifted to stationary ambush/observation mode and required even more vigilance. We slept in shifts. I very seldom slept more than a couple of hours. My weight dropped below 120 pounds at one point, and I lost a lot of my hair. Many reasons I suppose---stress, poor diet, heat and humidity, and the miles and miles of recon among them. Towards the end of time in the field, the last week or two, I received and carried a small Bible with an armored plate my brother Ken had sent to me in the left pocket of my fatigue shirt.  I had sincere doubts that it could stop a bullet well placed to my heart, but I took comfort both in the Bible and the fact it was something from my big brother.

Back from recon (L), a hot shower and a letter from Sandy.

    Delivered by HQ clerk and buddy Barry Kuhn (R).  My weight

at this time, shortly before promotion to Sergeant, was

barely 120 pounds.

I was promoted to Sergeant and took over a leadership role of the daily missions of the team for the remainder of my time with the LRRP unit after our team leader was wounded from a single round of a 7.62 from a sniper’s AK-47. Since insignia was subdued and one man was virtually indistinguishable from the next, and I was standing right beside him with that radio, I always felt that round was probably intended for me.  I was told from the outset that I had a target on my back in the form of that radio.  I kept reminding myself to just focus on the moment, and that my time in the unit was promised to be short.  Soon, a new and permanent LRRP team leader would be joining the team, and I would be back in the forward base camp saving lives in addition to taking them.

I was determined to the point of obsession with getting my men and myself home in one piece. I will not elaborate on the firefights with the Viet Cong and NVA we engaged on routine reconnaissance—thank God not frequently-- the sniper assaults, or the hailstorm from hell that we endured on one occasion while serving as a point team in a major joint operation sweep in the Iron Triangle that almost made my name among those to subsequently be etched on the Vietnam Wall Memorial. Those details are not necessary nor the purpose of my memoirs.  

Yet today, still, very little time passes between the nightmares made luminous by the streaming flashes of green and red tracers from SKS Russian-made carbines, AK-47’s and M-16’s. Rocket Propelled Grenades (RPG’s,usually from a Chinese made B-40) seemed to be my nemesis, with two encounters resulting in my closest calls. I wasn’t the primary target in those instances, just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Captured enemy RPG from one of our patrols.  My photo.

I had two major fears that I dealt with every day while in-country; bigger than the others at least. Living with the thought, and helplessness, of a sniper popping up from a spider hole and delivering a well-aimed bullet was a cancer that sometimes would paralyze, encompass my every thought, and make it difficult to even breathe. Crossing open terrain or a field of elephant grass was usually enough to bring it on. The other was the suddenness and resulting devastation from mortar or rocket attacks while on down time in the base camp. Both were unseen threats, ones that you could not defend against much less measure revenge effectively. They seriously made you consider your mortality.

I recall vividly the first time in a stationary night ambush position, a lay down position actually, worn out from a long day of recon, when I first made out the black shadows of my enemy, silhouetted against deep gray of night. Not a cell of Viet Cong, but the real deal; North Vietnamese Army regulars. As was often the case, the humidity and dew were as if in a steady rain. We wore ponchos and water ran in tiny rivers down slick olive plastic. The five of us, me as the RTO on one of my initial patrols, were in a shallow depression and the “ghosts” appeared in single file on a ridge perhaps 50 yards from our prone bodies. I watched each one slide quietly by, a larger force than we could engage. No one breathed. The enemy soldiers turned their heads left and right as they passed, but we were well concealed by the shadows of the depression. It was the first time I had seen the enemy this close and in a completely vulnerable and indefensible position.

Later as I called in the enemy movement and direction to headquarters, I seriously thought about the possibility of dying. I had thought about it a lot during the occasional 81mm mortar attacks when I huddled and prayed in the bunker recess outside the hooch or in the TOC while in base camp during incoming, coordinating communications for artillery, Cobra and Spooky maneuvers. But, it seemed like a real possibility now all of a sudden; almost a certainty.  I didn’t want to die.  But, I had to find a place in my head, along with everything else, to consider the possibility and deal with it.

How would it happen?  How much pain would there be before I died?  What would happen after I passed from this existence to the next?  Was there truly another life after it all?  And if so, would God welcome me?  Would it be enough that I talked with Him every day? Would he forgive my questioning?  My times of doubt?

And then there was Mother. Would my poor fortune, should it occur, be more than she could cope with?   

However, as more time went by and I survived a couple of close calls I thought less about death and more about how much time I had left in-country before I could go home...or at least move from field operations back to headquarters operations. This, I think, was particularly true after my promotion to Sergeant when my mind was more actively involved in keeping us all alive and completing the mission effectively instead of obsessing with my own phobias.

             Ready to go. Fall, 1968. Specialist 4th Class, Keith W. Ragan

Keith Wayne Ragan

Former Headquarters Tactical Command Sergeant

Headquarters, 2nd Brigade, 1st Infantry Division

Di An Basecamp, Republic of South Vietnam

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