The Lieutenant

What I am about to tell you is an example of how not to judge a book by its cover. This is the story of our new Lieutenant.

I had been in the first platoon of Bravo Company for almost eight months, and I was in the “bush,” what we called the jungles of Vietnam. I had seen my share of firefights. I had been shot at many times and sent my share of bullets back. I considered myself an old timer compared to the FNGs (F***ing New Guys) who occasionally showed up to replace someone killed or wounded. You didn’t try to get to know them because most got themselves killed or wounded and medevacked in the first two weeks. If they made it through the first month, you might get closer to them. It was the same for new sergeants and new lieutenants until that particular day. Our squad has eight guys, most have been in Nam for months.

I am one of two team leaders, and it's just me and three other bullet pushers. I haven’t had a shower in three weeks and only one hot meal in the last five days. Between the heat and humidity and humping the jungle every day, I am twenty pounds lighter and a hundred percent grungier. How in the hell did I ever get used to this being normal?

We lost our old platoon leader three days ago in a small firefight. He had been with us the entire time I had been in the platoon. He was unlucky and caught some shrapnel in the leg, which required medical evacuation. In case you didn’t know, your platoon leader is crucial for those of us in the “bush.” He is the connection to the company and the support we always rely on: bullets, beans, and medevac. For the “bush bunnies,” those infantrymen who are constantly in the jungle, your leader often decides whether you go home on two feet or in a coffin. When that lifeline officer is gone, you wonder who will step in.

We expected a new platoon leader any day, so it was no surprise when this new second lieutenant arrived. We had a night position near the Ashau Valley, and he arrived by helicopter late in the afternoon. After we saw him briefly meet with the company commander, he and Platoon Sergeant Miller came to our fighting positions. Sergeant Miller introduced the three squad leaders and individual team leaders. He and Platoon Sergeant Miller spent the rest of the evening together, probably talking about the rest of us. Before dark, the new platoon leader and the three other platoon leaders joined the company commander. We all guessed they were going over tomorrow’s mission. We were right when the lieutenant soon returned with our mission for the next day.

As a team leader, I was part of the unit’s leadership for the next day’s mission briefing. I guess the best I can say about the new platoon leader is that we were unimpressed with his briefing on the following morning’s combat assault. Intelligence reports said the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) was there, and the LZ (landing zone) would be hot. We were familiar with the old platoon leader, but this guy was way different. There was no West Point ring; he was thin, had no suntan, and had no noticeable accent. He also wore these black-rimmed glasses, which the girls back home called "BC," or birth control glasses. His new jungle fatigues contrasted sharply with our worn, torn, and muddy pants and shirts. He told us all we needed to know, which, for those of us who had done this so many times before, seemed old hat. The next morning would be a wake-up call for all of us.

As usual, the early morning pickup landing zone was a scene of organized chaos. Troops lined up on both sides of the landing zone. It's hard to describe an area as big as a football field with groups of four fully loaded infantrymen spaced about twenty yards apart, facing another group of four forty yards away. The plan is always to have the helicopters land between the lines of troops, and each group of four loads into their side of the aircraft.

The new Lieutenant was moving between squads, checking the guys left and right. I gotta admit, we probably seemed pretty bored to him. Come on, lieutenant! We’ve done this twenty or thirty times before. We quickly boarded the helicopters and took off as other helicopters landed swiftly to pick up the next group of soldiers.

The platoon leader was on my aircraft and sat on the helicopter’s left side with his radio telephone operator (RTO), one of the other fire team’s guys, and the platoon medic. I was on the other side with my three fire team members. The ride to the LZ was too short. We hardly had time to enjoy the fresh, cool air at 2000 feet as our feet hung over the side of the helicopter. As our helicopter banked left and began to descend, that’s when the fun started.

The artillery and helicopter gunships were working the LZ over. Smoke from the artillery and aerial rocket fire was everywhere on and around where we were to land. This particular LZ was promised to be “hot,” and it was. As our helicopters approached at low level, green tracers began coming toward our formation. We knew the firefight was on since only the NVA used green tracers. Our door gunners began returning fire as the helicopters flared to land quickly and get the hell out of the way. I look across the helicopter, and the lieutenant is gone! What the hell? Did he get hit and fall? He didn’t jump, did he?

The helicopter touched down, and I quickly slipped out and saw that the lieutenant had jumped early. He probably bailed out when the helicopters flared, thinking it was landing. He landed on wet ground and was stuck up to his boot tops in the soggy ground. His RTO and the platoon medic quickly pulled him out. I heard the medic say something like, “Up you go, Lieutenant,” with more than a hint of sarcasm. The Lieutenant looked around, saw me, and said, “Ready, Sergeant? Let’s go.” We joined up with the rest of the platoon as quickly as possible. The platoons that had landed before us were firing and maneuvering on enemy positions that continued to deliver green tracers just over our heads. As bullets flew, we just kept low until we needed to move. I saw the Lieutenant keep getting up, trying to see what was happening in front. I saw his RTO pull him down twice, and once overheard him tell the Lieutenant there was no need to get his head shot off. At least, not yet.

By this time, my evaluation of the new lieutenant was low. He was either another John Wayne or stupid. Either way, he was dangerous, and we might be in trouble. Little did I know that we would get to know our new lieutenant that day in a way none of us will forget.

Just as we thought we had the upper hand, mortar rounds began falling on us. Suddenly, BOOM! One hit right where the Lieutenant, the RTO, and two of my fire team took cover behind a termite mound. The dirt and dust from the explosion on the termite mound threw up a yellow cloud that blocked out everything. As if things couldn’t get worse, the first heavy rain of the monsoon decided it was time to empty the clouds. We didn’t think the monsoon season would start for another week or two. For those who have never experienced a monsoon, it's like the heavens decided to flush every cloud in the sky right on top of you. You can hardly see or hear anything more than a couple of feet in front of you. We learned later that the NVA had fire lanes all laid out in front of them, and all they had to do was fire along those lanes. Even if they couldn’t see anyone, we, on the other hand, could only guess where the firing was coming from. That is, until the Lieutenant emerged from the smoke and dust of the mortar round.

The lieutenant got to his feet, pulled two wounded guys to a depression, and told the rest of us to begin laying down a base of fire against any enemy position that we could see. In this deluge, he went up and down our line of guys, showing them where to fire and encouraging us to move forward and break the enemy line. The smoke grenades he threw landed close to where the NVA were firing from, and we were able to return fire effectively. He never flinched, even though some of the bullets hit close to him and raised little water fountains alongside his boots. We could hear bullets snapping the wet branches and broad leaves just overhead. This guy was walking around like there was no one shooting at him!

I don’t think I will ever forget the sight of the lieutenant, with his jungle fatigues in threads, blood running from his nose and ears, quietly encouraging us to take the initiative and eliminate the enemy threat. It seemed like he was everywhere at once. When things got hairy in one location, the Lieutenant pointed out where the enemy was firing and directed fire against that threat. As soon as we overran one enemy bunker, another opened fire. The rain was coming down so heavily that I couldn’t see anything. It was like the Lieutenant was able to see through that shit like it wasn’t there.

The Lieutenant was just ahead of me, firing tracer rounds at bunkers. All of a sudden, he sort of flinched and moved his rifle to his left hand. I watched as he took his right index finger and plugged a bullet hole in his left chest. My first thought was, “Oh shit, they got the Lieutenant.” I grabbed his arm,

“Lieutenant, are you hit?”

“Don’t sweat it, Sergeant. I got it under control.”

Now, I have seen some guys get hit before. None of them reacted the way the Lieutenant did, which was strange. I had little time to do anything other than keep my guys moving and firing, so I guessed the Lieutenant knew what he was doing. I lost sight of him in the rain.

Once the enemy was either driven from their positions or died in them, we had a chance to care for the wounded. When I next saw the Lieutenant, I suddenly realized he was deaf. The explosion had deafened him, and he was oblivious to the outgoing and incoming fire. I guess he never knew how close the bullets were to him. Just as well, I guess, until he took that one to the chest.

Soon, we had the four wounded, including the Lieutenant, gathered alongside one of the enemy bunkers we had cleared out. Out of that damn monsoon downpour, the NVA launched a counterattack. The rain was coming down so hard it took us all by surprise. Their initial blast of rifle fire and rocket-propelled grenades grabbed everyone’s attention real quick.

Now I was really pissed. “Where in the hell did these guys come from? I thought we had killed all of these sonsa bitches.” I guess they took advantage of the rain and regrouped out of our sight.

As I looked around, the Lieutenant was already on the radio calling in supporting artillery fire. In a steady voice, he gave the artillery firing coordinates. Even though he spoke clearly, with authority, he looked awfully pale. I was afraid he was going to faint. I started to low crawl to where my guys were laying down some heavy fire on dinks they could see. Just then, an enemy grenade flew into the group of wounded around the Lieutenant. Before anyone could move, he grabbed his helmet and covered the grenade with the helmet and his body. The blast lifted him up, and for a few seconds, he just lay there. The two wounded soldiers right next to him immediately realized that the Lieutenant had just saved their lives. Much to our surprise, the Lieutenant sat back up. His shirt was now completely bloody, and the only way you could tell he had been shot was the bloody bandage across his chest. The rest of the wounds he had from the grenade were now bleeding through what was left of his shirt.

He lay back against the bunker and softly said,

“Jesus, am I glad their grenades aren’t like ours. It would have gotten us all.”

With that, he picked up the radio handset and gave the artillery coordinates to stop the enemy attack. Eventually, the enemy withdrew in the heavy rain, dragging their wounded with them. Our medics worked hard on the wounded, doing all they could. The radio calls for medevac were answered within minutes, and our wounded, including the Lieutenant, were loaded and on their way to a forward aid station.

Later, as I sat in the rain with a poncho over my head and a damp, but still lit Pall Mall in my mouth, I thought,

“Man, I have now seen it all. What started out as a green lieutenant who we thought might be a problem has turned into a goddamn hero, and it ain’t even noon.”

We took a break later in the afternoon for some hot chow brought in by chopper. The same chopper brought a couple of headquarters officers. Their clean fatigues and fancy clipboards identified them. We learned that the wounded told everyone at the aid station how the Lieutenant had saved their lives. The officers went around and collected statements from anyone who was near where he was during the firefight and particularly after he had been wounded. Platoon Sergeant Miller pulled me aside after I gave my statement on what I saw. Rain dripping from his helmet and onto my cigarette, he looked at me and asked,

“Billings, did you really see the Lieutenant do everything you said? I overheard you talking to that officer from headquarters.”

“Sergeant Miller, you bet your ass I saw him. After he got hit by the mortar round, he was like Superman. Pointing out where the firing was coming from, throwing smoke grenades to mark the dink bunkers, and in front the whole time. It was like he could see through all the rain. I have never seen anyone ignore incoming like that?”

“Did you see him get hit?”

“I did. It was the damndest thing. He sort of flinched and put his finger in the hole. It was right above his heart. What kind of guy does that?”

“When that grenade landed between the other wounded, everyone but the Lieutenant froze. He covered that grenade with his helmet and his body.

Then this rock-solid lifer, Platoon Sergeant, looked me in the eye, his face unreadable,

“Billings, I heard the brass talking. They are going to put him in for the big one. You know, the Medal of Honor.”

“I think if anyone earned it, the Lieutenant did today. More than a few of us probably wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for him.”

With that, the crusty sergeant looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. He swallowed hard and said,

“Billings, the Lieutenant didn’t make it. They said he was gone by the time he was loaded on the medevac bird.”

With those final words, Platoon Sergeant Miller turned and walked to the other soldiers, now formed into a defensive perimeter.

Just as I exclaimed “son-of-bitch,” at Sergeant Miller’s statement, the rain stopped and the sun came out. Monsoon weather is weird. One minute, you can’t see in front of your face for the rain, and then it's like someone turned off the faucet, and it's sunny and hot, just like every other fucking day in the jungle.

This firefight probably lasted only two hours from when we landed, but they always seem to last much longer. With the pucker factor on high, time seems to slow down. It's that way when the adrenaline is flowing and you believe everyone in the world is trying to kill just you. Only when it's over and you think about what happened can you take it in. That’s when the shakes sometimes overtake you. After my first firefight, I was shaking like a leaf. I guess a dozen of them makes you harder and less fragile. I see some of the new guys still trying to make sense of what they just went through. Don’t know if I can help them. It's one of those things you have to work out on your own.

I sat alongside one of my fire team and thought about the last twenty hours as sunbeams poked through the dripping jungle canopy. Damn, how we had misjudged the new Lieutenant. I can’t imagine what he felt when he jumped out of the helicopter early, fell ten feet, and got stuck in the mud. Or when his RTO kept telling him to keep his head down when he was constantly sticking his head up, trying to find out what was happening. He seemed to all of us as the greenest of green lieutenants.

Then the mortar round landed on his small group. At that time, I witnessed acts of heroism I had never seen before. His leadership in the heavy exchange of fire was as inspiring as it was remarkable. Saving the lives of the wounded soldiers is something I will never forget. All of it deserves recognition, and I expect it will come to his family at some point later. I hope I am home before then—225 days down, 140 to go!