Unexploded Shell

A bit of history first.

It has been reported, accurately, I believe, that the one thing Lyndon Johnson could not countenance during the Vietnam war was the annihilation of the big 26th marine regiment fire base and air strip at Khe Sanh. It is said that he had the entire base reproduced in miniature, fortifications and all, in a room at the White House. He reputedly planned the defense himself and watched the slaughter day by day, determined that the enemy would not have its way whatever the price.

He had cause for concern, for it was ringed by North Vietnamese troops under the command of General Giap, the same tactical leader who, a quarter century earlier, surrounded the French fire base at Dien Ben Phieu and eventually overran it despite the heroic defense the French and their mercenaries put up for weeks. Giap literally ringed the base with artillery, despite the French conviction that it simply could not be done. Indeed the French artillery commander at Dien Ben Phieu committed suicide during the siege.

That battle turned the French people against the war, and eventually led to the establishment of two Vietnams, the socialist in the North and the Republic of South Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh agreed to the partition of Vietnam with the guarantee that eventually there would be a plebiscite which would, he believed, reunify the nation under his aegis. He reckoned without an American theory about falling dominoes, containment, and John Foster Dulles. The plebiscite never happened, despite international guarantees, and our involvement drew ever nigh. It was said that when Jack Kennedy succeeded President Eisenhower, the former general said, “We may have to fight there.”

During the Tet offensive of 1968, every major city in the South was under attack, but the focus eventually returned to the marines at Khe Sanh. Over too many drinks on the tenth floor of the Caravelle Hotel in Saigon, the reporters’ talk would frequently turn to the bleeding fire base and the tightening circle around it. The causality figures were hard to come by but we knew the marines, South Vietnamese Rangers, SeeBees, and medical personnel, were being shelled and killed by the big guns surrounding their positions. Something else happened: one reporter after the other tried to get into the base. If you examined your own motives, it was more a badge of honor thing than a desire for coverage.

I was at the Marine Corps press center in Danang waiting my turn.. We heard that the correspondents from another network were refusing to go. You could certainly appreciate their reasoning, but deep down you held them in contempt and were angered, for their seeming reluctance worked on you. You felt more pressured than ever to go, land, frequently under fire, endure the shelling, tell the story, and get out with the film.

Another NBC correspondent came back and he was a basket case, screaming in his sleep and remaining as drunk as he could for the several days before he went south to Saigon. David Burrington, the California-based correspondent for NBC, came back and said it wasn’t as bad as people made it out to be, that you could get in, use your brains, and get out in one piece. To this day I am grateful to Burrington, as I am to John Chancellor, who sat me down before leaving New York and gave me valuable advice.

The marine P.I.O. called and told me to be ready at 0600 hours, I was going in. Sleep was damned near impossible the night before and, half exhausted, full of adrenaline, I got aboard the plane and headed for the fire base. You swallowed fear and looked at the faces of the young marines who were returning to their hell on earth. The story was etched in the laterite dust on their faces, the too-soon-old eyes and impassive faces. They could not afford to dwell on what their existence would be like as soon as we landed. No one talked, no one came up with a smart-assed remark, which was always a clue.

The C-123 was loaded with shells for our artillery and you didn’t want to imagine what would happen should a round hit the plane. Vo Suu, my brave, competent cameraman, napped. Hugh Van Ess, my sound man, who was later wounded when his plane crashed on take off, stared out the window. After circling the base for an hour, our landing was called off because of the dense fog.

I could taste my relief, my body sagged, and I was asleep within minutes but not before realizing that this scenario would be repeated until I got in. Upon our return to the Danang Press Center, I reported to Saigon via the “Tiger” line and was told to try again.

Tuesday was more of the same, as was the rest of the week until the Friday when the fog lifted. I was sound asleep in the noisy plane when Van Ess shook me awake and said “We’re going in, we’re going in.” I wanted to kill him for waking me and letting me sweat bullets for the remaining fifteen minutes of the flight. Sweating profusely, I shifted the sixty pound pack I was carrying and tried to remember Burrington’s instructions as to the location of the famous See Bee bunker, the ultra strong redoubt, below ground, in which the correspondents stayed.

It sounds bizarre, if not surreal, that these planes, and their gutsy pilots, didn’t stop to debark passengers. They slowed way down, did a tight-assed circle at the end of the runway, the tailgate came down, marines pushed off the ammunition skids and ran off while other marines charged aboard. All this while the plane slowly gained speed for takeoff. The enemy gunners had that singled-out, and would throw everything they had at these slow moving targets.

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We helped push out the heavy pallets, bolted from the plane, looked for the barbed wire, then ran through a path cut through its razor tangles and piled into a fox hole as several shells, fired by the North Vietnamese, landed nearby. I literally dove in head-first and landed at the feet of a grinning Samoan Marine Sergeant whose picture had graced the front page of LIFE magazine a couple of weeks before. The more he looked at my upside down form, the more he laughed and eventually I laughed with him. Welcome to Khe Sanh.

He directed us to the SeeBee bunker, we went below ground, unloaded our gear and I was about to grab a rack when Sawada San, the handsome and courageous still photographer, sidekick to Peter Arnet, informed me politely that the bunk belonged to Arnet. Another photographer named Jim Ellison, offered me a bunk. Sawada and Ellison were later killed in action. We began living like moles, or as we were sometimes described, “Khe Sanh rats.” More than a thousand shells a day were reportedly landing on the base which, I was told, was about the size of three football fields, but don’t hold me to that, its been a long time.

Next morning, just after dawn, we took the grand tour with Colonel Knowns. He was bemused and tolerant, for the same questions had been asked dozens of times before. He shook his head when I asked,” Colonel, there’s no question we are surrounded, wouldn’t you love to see an American division coming over those hills?” His reply, “We would always welcome friends.” He smiled, I grinned and the shells began falling around the position and we dove for cover.

Later that afternoon, during another foray, the shelling began again and I threw myself into a crater. A marine with a camera rolled into the one closest to us and I was gazing into the startled face of Sgt. Davidson, a fellow member of the 1st Marine Corps Reserve Battalion based in Brooklyn, New York. I hadn’t seen him since I’d left the reserve unit in 1957. He looked, shook his head and asked directly, “What the fuck are you doing here?” It was a question I was afraid to answer.

After my second night at Khe Sanh, I realized I hadn’t had a bowel movement, the reason for which could evince a ribald comment. The thought occurred to me that the whole damned North Vietnamese Army was not going to totally dictate my life and specifically my bodily functions, that was going way too far. I had had it. Among a few choice pieces of gear I had brought to Khe Sanh was a quart of Scotch in a spare canteen and a cigar.

I asked around and was told that indeed there was a latrine of sorts, it was shot up, but it was there. I found my way to this incredible toilet which had three sides of 3/4 plywood but the shrapnel had literally torn holes through it everywhere. I didn’t give a damn. I went in, found the appropriate hole, lit my cigar, found a copy of a service newspaper on the ground, picked it up and, in time honored fashion, greeted the new day the way it is greeted in every society everywhere.

When I finished I sauntered, yes sauntered, away from the latrine with a sense of order in the world. At that point a Corporal ran up to me and said, “Sir, I wouldn’t use that head again.”

“Why’s that Corporal?”

“There’s an unexploded North Vietnamese shell in their, sir,” and with that he turned and took off in high gear.

I watched his fast retreating back and thought, “What a way to go.”