The Battle of Hill 137
Rick Hale, 23. 2nd Lieutenant, US Marine Corps.
19 October 1963
Dear Diary,
Same shit different day I guess. I think it's the jungle. Definitely the jungle. The rain pours down and hammers on your helmet like hornets, the vines clutching at you as you walk past, the insects swarming around you. We received orders to take Hill 137 today, "cake walk", the captain described it. The hill was fortified with Viets, and had a vantage point that we could use to walk shell fire into the valley to support the front line. The rain was beating down hard that afternoon, churning the mud beneath our boots, and making the jungle shimmer, as if ghosts walked through the vines. Soaked to our skins, we silently crawled up the hill toward the encampment ahead. There were two viets smoking in the hut, clustered around the radio that served as an early warning for the camp further up. Astley and I checked our weapons and pulled out our knives. I motioned the platoon to stay covered, and crawled out to the side of the tent with Astley. We heard them talking in their language, laughing at something. I raised three fingers, two, and one. We dashed in, I grabbed the viet from behind, plunged my knife into his chest, and covered his mouth. He struggled, and made futile attempts at defending, while he watched his partner suffer the same fate. I will never forget that look in his eyes as the life slowly seeped out of him, leaving behind only a blank, glasslike stare. We covered the body in tarp and moved on. I know I should feel something, he was a person, and I took his life. He was clutching a picture of his parents, and died holding on to it. I felt nothing. All I felt was numb.
We climbed up the hill to the edge of the camp. The rain had covered our advance and the viets were still relaxed, unaware of the danger that was watching them. The snipers took position in the trees, and the flamethrowers in front. I watched through binoculars, as the troops shuffled to and fro, chatting, doing laundry and smoking. To my surprise, I spotted women and children. A snag. I signalled for the radioman, a young corporal Blaine stumbled forward, probably his first battle, probably also his last, and he knew that too. I radioed in to HQ,
"Women and children in camp, is the mission a go?"
A rough older texan voice sounded on the radio, the colonel.
"Son, the viets have a fixed position down at that valley, it's a meat grinder." He sighed, "Lord help me, but we need that shell fire, mission is a go. Lethal force authorized."
I understood, it was our forces above these civilians. But something deep inside me felt wrong. "Operation is a go, on my mark" I commanded. "Three, two, one, mark."
Gunfire split the air like thunderclaps, snipers unloaded their clips into the command tent, and the front line opened machine gun fire. The camp was havoc, as the panicked viets ran around getting shot. A commander ran out of the tent and received 3 high caliber sniper shots, his chest opening like a blooming flower. The machine guns made short work of those in the open, cutting them down to bloody ribbons. The front line charged forward, into the trenches surrounding the camp. I dived into a trench, killing with short bursts of rifle fire. The mud splashed my boots, blood splashed my face, I could feel the heat of the barrel on my cheek. I climbed into the next trench, and was met with a disturbing sight. Till now, I still see it, whenever I close my eyes, I fear it will never leave me. It was a boy on the muddy ground of the trench, with a hole in his head, blood flowing freely and mingling with the mud, forming a disgusting mixture. There, cradling his head, was a soldier. But I could see he was no older than 15, carrying a rifle he could barely shoulder, crying over his friend's death. He looked up at me, a look of fear, despair and hatred. He screamed and levelled his rifle, as I scrambled to do the same. Whether I was older, luckier, or stronger, it didn't matter. The result was the same. The bullet caught him square in the forehead, and he dropped instantly.
I stood there, feeling the shame and indignity of it all, fighting the strong desire to vomit.
"LIEUTANANT!"
I turned around. Corporal Blaine ran towards me, holding the radio. "Command needs..." What command needed, I never found out, because as he ran toward me, a hole appeared in his chest, the size of an apple. The last look of surprise on his face as he died, I will never forget. "SNIPER!" I yelled, and hit the ground. A white hot line drew across my arm as I dodged death by the centimeter. I watched as the rest of my platoon took over the base like a bloody montage of death. One threw a grenade into a hut and ducked as bloody limbs flew out. Another fired a steady stream of napalm into a trench, turning those who had been hiding into screaming, dancing torches of fire. A woman tried to surrender, but was mercilessly blown away by a shotgun. The miasmic smell of death surrounded me, the screaming a siren in the air. The last thing I remembered was an explosion before I blacked out.
When I came to, the battle had died down. The bodies were being dragged to a corner, while prisoners were interned right next to it, crying over the corpses of their friends. Our wounded were being treated, and a command post was being set up. A sergeant helped me to my feet and to the command post on top the hill. It had a perfect view into the valley below, I could see viets camped and fortified to the teeth. I keyed the radio to HQ and said "Mission accomplished". Praises and well wishes I did not hear. I turned to the sergeant for the bad news. "17 out of 60 men killed, 23 wounded. Preliminary body count is ongoing, but we estimate 157 viets killed, plus 42 women and children." I nodded. Acceptable. The battle of Hill 137 had been won. But as I close my eyes now, I hear the screams of the fallen, the surprised face of the corporal, the child soldier in the trench, and the charred bloody remains in the pile.
I am sick at the heart of war.
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