TBS 2-67 Cruisebook_Updated_7Jan23

John Burwell Wilkes
pulled out my 1911 45­caliber pistol and snapped off the safety.
Just as I was thinking about shooting the man, I remembered that
we had a Chieu Hoi Scout with us (a turned and rehabilitated VC).
Thank God I did not pull the trigger. Once we were in the trench I
took the radio and called for the defensive fires that I had
previously set up with the battery. During my call for fire, I
reported among other things that we were taking incoming from
“rockets.” I should have used the full term for “rocket propelled
grenades,” because I had not yet grasped the paranoia generated
by the simple word “rockets.” An officer, probably the battery
commander, interjected himself into the net, delaying my fire
request, and asking for the “type of the rockets.” With weapons
firing and explosions all around me, I was irritated at the
momentary delaying of my call for fire, and responded with “the
kind that f#&king go off.” Thank God, no offense was taken, and
gratefully, no one ever chided me about it…, except for myself, of
course.
I would like to think that our artillery foiled the enemy’s attack,
because the incoming stopped almost immediately after the
105mm artillery rounds started landing just outside our perimeter.
When the RPG had first hit the turret, there was a tanker sitting
on top of it with his legs dangling inside. The penetrating shaped
charge had ripped off one of his legs. The corpsman squeezed on a
tourniquet, and we put the unconscious Marine aboard an old CH­
34 med evac helicopter. As the CH­34 engine was winding up, a
tanker ran up with the Marine’s detached leg. I grabbed it and
threw it up into the helicopter as it lifted off. It turned out,
amazingly enough, that the tanker was one of only three Marine
WIA casualties. I never did hear whether the tanker survived.
The aftermath of the battle had another rude awakening for me.
The artillery rounds had accounted for several enemy casualties.
The Marines had policed up one of the wounded VC who literally
had one of his feet removed by a 105mm round. When a Marine
shined a flashlight into the man’s face, I was devastated. I realized
it was the same man that held the sick baby that I had dealt with
earlier in the afternoon. I do not think I have ever gotten over that
realization to this very day.
Later I discovered that the hedgerow by my choice for a bed had
a substantial amount of dirt piled and packed over a foot above its
roots. This berm was substantial enough so that it had stopped all
the bullets aimed lower than the bullets that passed right over me.
Also, the grenade that someone had thrown at me from the other
side of the hedgerow, still had tucked up into the handle, the ring
and string that needed to be pulled to activate the fuse. The
platoon sergeant soaked the grenade in a bucket of water, then
disassembled it, then scraped out all the gun powder and shrapnel.
After reassembling it, he gave it back to me to keep as a souvenir.
Now I was beginning to realize just what a lucky son of a bitch I
really was. I promised myself that I would never be so inattentive
and cavalier again. I also promised myself that I definitely would
try to avoid tanks in the future. Tanks were just not suited for the
type of warfare we were fighting, and they were simply big juicy
targets that endangered everyone around them.
When I was able to return to the regimental compound and make
my way back to Fox Battery, I was treated like a conquering hero.
Fox Battery had fired my defensive fires and had received the
kudos for the platoon coming through the attack almost unscathed.
The battery staff made me feel that I had successfully completed
A‐56