2P  SERGEANT WILLIAM SMITH

The perimeter around Nui Ba Den was a conglomerate of various terrain features ranging from gradual slopes to steep vertical drops, and boulder fields with rocks ranging in size from a baseball to an Abrams tank. Just taking a walk around the perimeter was a daunting task for me, but every morning I walked it to make sure that there were no obvious breaches in our defenses. The Vietcong knew the difficulty of our moving around the mountain and were constantly probing our perimeter. They were always looking for that one sweet spot where our defenses were the weakest and where they had a tactical advantage. They had gained their knowledge of the mountain while fighting the Japanese in World War II and the French in the First Indochina War. By the time America got involved the Vietcong had already controlled 95% of the mountain, leaving only the very top for our signal equipment. Our main defences were the eighteen evenly-spaced bunkers along our outer perimeter, which were always manned twenty-four hours a day at a high level of alertness. It was a team effort and any complacency was not tolerated. In addition to the bunkers we also had a twenty-man reaction force on standby, which could reach any point on the mountain within fifteen minutes. Our isolation and the never-ending enemy probing caused numerous false alarms; but the consequences for not taking all of the alarms seriously could lead to a repeat of the 1968 attack where the mountain was overrun; twenty-five Americans were killed, and the same amount were wounded. In that attack the Vietcong destroyed all of the signal equipment and disrupted most of the communications in III Corp. The overwhelming stress that the defenders were constantly exposed to caused numerous accidents, some of which ended in tragedy.
The following incident is an example of what happens in combat when you are surrounded by the enemy and you have nowhere to run. It took place around the beginning of June 1969, at around 1:00 a.m., on the eastern side of Nui Ba Den mountain. On a moonless night one of our perimeter guards thought he saw movement in the outer wiring and responded by firing his M-60 machine gun. This action immediately caused the whole perimeter to go on full alert within seconds. Our 81 mm mortar crew immediately went into their defensive fire mode and fired two high-explosive rounds towards the suspected target. Unfortunately, one of the rounds landed short of its target and exploded next to bunker twelve. By the time I reached the bunker, Sergeant Smith was holding a rag to the back of his head trying to stop the blood that was flowing down his neck. In the low light it was hard for me to tell the extent of his wounds, so I bandaged his head the best I could and we carried him to Doc’s bunker. When Doc removed the bandages, the severity of the wound overwhelmed us; part of his skull was missing and all we could do for him was to make him comfortable and to try and keep him out of pain. Due to our isolation and the enemy controlling most of the mountain, no medivac would attempt a nighttime landing. Sergeant Smith regained consciousness and appeared to be coming around when he suddenly went into shock and stopped breathing. Doc and I tried to revive him but he never regained consciousness.
I was totally beside myself and extremely upset by the incident; I wanted answers as to how this could have happened. I ran down to the mortar team’s bunker, holding my .45 pistol in an aggressive stance, and demanded an explanation for what had just happened. The smell of marijuana permeated the air; I initially thought the mortar team was spaced out on weed, and that had caused the death of Sergeant Smith. The four-man mortar team seemed confused as to what had just happened, and they didn’t seem to comprehend that Sergeant Smith was dead. I threatened a full investigation into the incident and to court martial any man responsible for Sergeant Smith’s death. The discussion was one-sided and was going nowhere, so I went back to my bunker to do an incident report before I fell asleep at my desk. Several hours later I was suddenly awakened by the sound of someone yelling “grenade,” and from my peripheral vision I could see a grenade rolling across the floor of my bunker. I dove to the floor but the grenade did not explode; it only filled the bunker with red smoke. I believe if it were not for Major Campbell rooming with me it would have been a frag grenade instead of the smoke grenade. I had pissed someone off in the mortar platoon and this was his warning to not pursue the incident. After talking the matter over with Major Campbell and Sergeant Meyers, we all agreed that since the mortar rounds had zero extra charges attached to them, it could not have been anyone’s fault, but most likely a factory defective round, which the mortar crew could not have known about. Later that day I had a meeting with the mortar teams and assured them that there would not be any formal investigation; all I wanted to do was to figure out what had happened and to find a way to prevent it from happening again, if that was even possible.
After eight months in Vietnam and surviving all of my close calls, all I wanted to do was to make it home alive and in one piece. I left that meeting satisfied that I then had a better chance of making that wish come true. Everyone on the mountain liked Sergeant Smith and when word got around about the accident we held a memorial service for him. Anyone who has experienced combat firsthand realizes that shit happens in war—including short rounds, and there is nothing you can do to prevent them. Sergeant Smith was an excellent career soldier and an asset to the 25th Infantry Division.