Very Crazy, G.I.!: Strange but True Stories of the Vietnam War

DEAD RECKONING Perhaps one of the deadliest threats to anyone sta-tionedin Vietnam during the war came from Viet Cong or North Vietnamese Armymortar or Katyusha 122mm-rocket artillery fire. At any moment and,seem-ingly, any facility, the "incoming" (as it was better known) couldrain down and wound or kill anyone within its deadly radius. In thisstory, you'll come to bet-ter understand another aspect of thatfrightening reality and, too, the terror of getting hit. In war, youwill die like a dog for no good reason. –ERNEST HEMINGWAYDong Ha, VietnamThe North Vietnamese Army's Van An Rocket Ar-tillery Regiment had it infor the Marine 3d Recon Bat-talion. At least, at times, it felt thatway. The base camp at Dong Ha seemed to be one of their favorite targetareas and, too, maybe one of their easiest. Dong Ha was located onHighway 9, less than ten miles from the DMZ in the I Corps MilitaryRegion, the northernmost of the four corps tactical zones into whichVietnam was divided. The DMZ was the infamous and misnamed DemilitarizedZone that separated North Vietnam from South Vietnam, and it wasanything but demilitarized. The North Vietnamese Army used it as aspringboard for attacks in I Corps, and since their rocket artilleryrounds could easily cover the distance, Dong Ha was not only a target ofchoice for the NVA artillery gunners but a target of opportunity aswell.This time, they were walking the Russian 122mm rockets into the basewith such precision that even the uninitiated could see it wasn't arandom attack. The deafening explosions of the forty-pound warheadserupted in an evident pattern as specific sites were being targeted.With their vast spy network throughout the re-gion, the Communistgunners knew the Marine facility well and took full advantage of theknowledge.However, even before the first rocket slammed into the tents ortin-roofed barracks hootches, and split sec-onds before the base camp'swarning siren began build-ing into a screaming wail, Sgt. James P.Henderson recognized their distinctive whoosh, like a truck's tires athigh speed on a wet road, for what it was and yelled at his people toget to the protective sandbagged bunkers outside."Incoming!" the wiry noncommissioned officer yelled, pulling Marines outof the barracks and shoving them toward the nearest bunker, just aroundthe corner of the hootch. "Go! Go! Go!"The rockets were falling in rapid succession, dancing across the base indeadly, macabre steps. Whoomphs fol-lowed the screaming whooshes and thethundering roars of secondary explosions that told of direct hits. Hotshrapnel rained across the camp, ripping and tearing through anythingand anyone in its way.Rising black plumes and the acrid, oily odor of burn-ing fuel confirmedthe NVA gunners' accuracy. Since the bases and camps were stationary,the ranges had long been defined and plotted by the Viet Cong and NVA.Be-sides, they'd had years of practice.Another 122mm rocket slammed into the next hootch over, tearing throughthe sheet-metal roofing and gutting the wood-frame building.Someone was screaming for a corpsman, then the call was drowned out bystill another series of whoomphs and explosions. The impacts anddetonations sent tremors across the base.His rifle in hand, Henderson grabbed his flak jacket and steel-pothelmet and took off in a dead run, follow-ing the others. If a groundattack followed, he would damn well be ready. The North Vietnamese Armysome-times attempted a ground assault after a shelling, hoping that theAmericans' defenses had been weakened or were inadequately manned.Henderson had just turned the corner of his hootch and was within a fewfeet of the bunker's opening when a rocket exploded a few yards behindhim. The blast slammed into his back, and the intense heat, splinteredmetal, and concussion lifted him up off the ground forcefully and threwhim down limply like a discarded doll.The pain was intense and overwhelming, and when Henderson tried to lifthimself up and turn over, his arms and legs wouldn't respond. Theycouldn't. There was too much weight on his legs and back. Lying facedownin the hard-packed orange earth, he wondered what had fallen on top ofhim. Building debris, most likely. But why was it so heavy?His breaths were shallow, and he was soon struggling for air, fighting adark current that threatened to sweep up and overpower him. His chestburned, and the air that somehow squeezed through to his lungs onlyfanned his pain. In the distance, someone was yelling for a corpsman,but the voice seemed too far away to matter. He knew he was hurt, but hecouldn't determine how badly. What was on his back?He couldn't see any debris, but then he couldn't focus either; everytime he opened his eyes, a searing light burned through his sockets. Itwas too bright and blind-ing to let anything else in. Then, in aninstant, the light began to fade, and a shadowy world took its placearound him. He was fading into black.Most of his hearing was lost, and what sound filtered through wasmuffled by the blood he could feel flowing from his ears. He would learnlater that his eardrums were shattered. Between the shaking from thefollow-up explosions and the cool shuddering earth, he could feel theburning pain of his broken body.Something was flowing down the side of his face and spilling into hismouth. The droplets tasted like warm copper droplets, and memoryrecognized it instantly. It was blood. He wanted to spit it out butcouldn't even find the strength to do that. Instead, he managed to usehis tongue to push it through his lips, and it dribbled to the ground.He could feel it pool in the soil beneath his cheek.When he tried to call for help nothing came out. The shallow exhaledbreaths didn't allow words, and in a terrible, frightening instant, heunderstood his fate. He was dying.Panic began to take over, but it was too late for that, too. The shadowsgrew darker, and the pain lessened, drifting off, actually leaving himin the cold tide of dark-ness.All around him, the rain of rockets fell, then finally danced off toanother part of the base. Through the earth, he felt their rumblediminish, moving away in big, labored steps.Moments later, it was still. Too still.For what seemed like an eternity, there was nothing for Henderson. Nosudden rush of life's reruns or re-grets. Nothing but white noise and aninternal pounding that replaced the exploding artillery rounds. Theinter-nal pounding was his pulse, and he could sense that the beats werelessening.Then he still couldn't see, but he could feel someone at his side gentlyturning him over, and he heard a yell, "Over here! Head wound!" TheMarine sergeant could barely hear the other wounded and dying Marinescry-ing around him, but that was enough to bring back the panic."I can't get a pulse! Don't die on me, you son of a bitch!" he heardthat someone say as though in the dis-tance, and although Hendersoncouldn't see the Marine shaking his head wearily or see the man'sblood-drenched hands, he could sense what was happening next as the manlowered him back to the ground. "Ah, Christ!" the man said, distant andfaint."Don't go! I'm not dead!" Henderson yelled in his mind, only no one elsecould hear. The back of his head was broken open where rocket shrapnelhad pushed his steel pot back into his skull like a baseball shatteringa window.James P. Henderson's world and life were bleeding away, swirlingsteadily toward a small opening of light propped against a dark seabackdrop. He was being sucked into a whirlpool, and he fought it untilthere was no choice but to spiral with it; he didn't have the strength,and he realized it with a reluctant acceptance. He wouldn't go easily,but he was going. Within sec-onds, he was gone.Dead.Killed In Action.