The day after the leeches

The captain directed vehicles of Air Cav Troop from the convoy, into a large open field. Unlike the burned-out village site we spent the night in, this location bore no proof of recent habitation, but looked like a pasture back home, with grass waiting for cattle to graze. Not very likely in Tay Ninh Province, though.

Drivers of the deuces and the five-ton ammunition truck got their trucks off the road and about fifty meters into the field. Then, with no further orders immediately forthcoming, engines shut down and everybody dismounted and stood around, smoking cigarettes and pulling water from canteens.

We waited for someone to tell us what to do next. Our so-far orders had been get on trucks and ride in convoy, and if the convoy is ambushed, get off the trucks and attack the ambushing Viet Cong. We had been quite successful at the first two parts.

After about 10 minutes of our standing around and smoking and telling tales of girls and cars back home, the quarter-ton with the captain drove from the road. The captain stood up and began yelling. “Get those trucks back on the road! Get ‘em back in the convoy now!”

The group I was standing with – Staff Sgt. Boher, Sgt. Castillo and Sgt. Jones – looked at each other. Boher said, “Well, who the hell does he think put us in this field to star with?” Then, as senior NCO present, Boher said, “You heard the captain! Let’s get back in convoy!” He got in front of the lead vehicle, the supply deuce, and waved a circle. “Get it going!”

The driver and assistant driver got in the truck and made a wide turn and headed back toward the dirt road. The vehicle maintenance truck followed.

 Next in line was the ammunition five-ton, loaded as much as it could be, machine gun and rifle ammunition, 2.75-inch rockets, two different kinds of 40mm grenade launcher ammunition, plus flares and other pyrotechnics.

The ammunition truck was towing one of the troop’s two JP-4 trucks, which had a few hundred gallons of jet fuel in the tank. I don’t know why the fuel truck had gone down, but it had, and the five-ton was the best tow for the loaded JP-4 truck.

The five-ton had gone only ten meters or so when there was a sudden roar of an explosion from a mine. The left rear set of four tires had run over the mine. The blast lifted the wheel section from the ground.

As soon as the mine detonated, I took two steps toward the explosion, then turned and got my M16, which I had leaned against a three-quarter-ton truck. Then, with rifle in hand, I again moved toward the five-ton, but by now my mind had caught up with what had happened as clods of dirt rained down.

A loaded ammunition truck towing a filled JP-4 tanker ran over a mine. And then: And nothing else happened. The ammunition truck did not blow up, the JP-4 tanker did not blow up, I did not blow up. Nobody blew up.

The driver and assistant driver of the ammunition truck bailed and ran a few meters away, as did the drivers and assistant drivers of the other trucks.

The captain, who sent us into the field, did not move, did not tell his driver to enter the field so he could determine what had happened. He began yelling again. “Get those trucks back on the road!”

Nobody moved. Everybody looked at everybody else. Then, Staff Sgt. Boher got in the truck behind the two disabled trucks. He started the deuce and made a wide turn and stopped behind the two trucks that had moved safely.

He walked back to the blast site and he told remaining drivers, “Follow my tracks! Drive directly in my tracks!”

When the trucks were moving, Boeher took a piece of cigarette from his mouth. He had bitten through the cigarette he had been smoking.