A Minnesota PBS Initiative
An Infantry Action
We woke up on the morning of Dec. 7, 1967, somewhere out in the "boonies" with the worst news that anyone could get: Bravo Company had "made contact." This quaint expression may evoke the image of two Gentlemen adorned in powdered wigs exchanging salutations, but what really happened was not a revival of the Enlightenment, but a visitation from the Bronze Age.
Bravo Co. had advanced outside the village of Đai Đong to check out an enemy sighting, when suddenly gunfire erupted. Lt. Sullivan was shot dead. As the company fell back to defensive positions, an enemy soldier rushed out, fell upon the chest of the prostrate form, and began to pummel the body with his fists. Needless to say, he was "picked off." This was how the First Battalion of the Eighth Cavalry had "made contact" with the enemy.
A dark sea of foreboding washed over our collective mind as we saw the armada of "Hueys" descending in magnificent formation to take us to Hell on earth. This was to be my first firefight.
Richard Dieterle. After Training, April, '67.
I knew that we could expect around ten men to be killed, and that about 50 or so would be wounded. You just hoped that you were in the lucky half of the company.
As the noisy flock of Hueys took flight, A Co. 1/8, like the cavalry of old, was riding to the rescue. We landed and linked up with Bravo Company, and both companies moved forward on line. We ourselves had not collided with the enemy, but the word passed down the line, "Bravo Company took a KIA," and this same message was repeated, then repeated again.
We fell in columns of two behind the APCs of the 50th Mechanized Infantry. The pace quickened as we began taking small arms fire. The APCs opened up with their sets of three guns, a .50 caliber machine gun, and two M-60 machine guns each.
We advanced behind a shield of lead. We roared over the first shallow entrenchment. There lay a young man with a huge hole below his right cheek and the left upper corner of his head completely blown out. I thought to myself, "I hope to Hell that I don't end up like that!"
This great lead-spitting Leviathan now wheeled across a nearly open field, sparsely populated by coconut palms. Suddenly, the floodgates of destruction burst open, and a deluge of bullets and rockets crashed into us.
During this chaos, I entered into a strange dreamlike trance in which everything seemed to occur in slow motion. This eventually popped like a bubble, and reality set in again at full speed.
A bullet winged the man in front of me and passed harmlessly under my left arm. The noise of gunfire was so loud that you could not hear the man standing next to you, and we were reduced to reading lips. As a B-40 rocket knocked down a man behind the next APC, all the gunners and some of the drivers of these steel monsters were hit. Our assault came to a halt.
During this chaos, I entered into a strange dreamlike trance in which everything seemed to occur in slow motion. This eventually popped like a bubble, and reality set in again at full speed. At times it felt like a giant was pressing his hand on the top of my skull, so concrete had become the sensation of fear control. I thought all this was a temporary brain malfunction peculiar to me, and never mentioned it to anyone. It was only years later, when I saw the film "Saving Private Ryan," where this strange psychological state was reproduced on the screen, that I realized that this was not so unusual after all. In some ways, I felt rather relieved.
When I reawakened from my trance state, things had not gotten any better. The driver of the APC to my right sustained two bullets to his helmet, which bounced with each impact.
Tewksbury, the man in front of me who had been grazed, now mounted the neighboring APC, and as he stood over the driver, I saw his shirt shake twice, as two bullets hit him in the heart. He jackknifed over the side. "Bullet" Bouchard yelled, "Tewksbury!" And ran over to him to pull him back, despite the risk and despite the fact that he was clearly dead.
Then the driver was pushed out from inside the APC, and somehow landed on his knees. He was alive. He flung his blood soaked head to and fro as those in traumatic shock always do. I pointed and yelled, "He's still alive!" A group of five or six guys from the APC dashed out to retrieve him, as I stepped out to give them cover fire.
Robert Tewksbury. Photo Credit: Vietnam Wall of Faces.
We were now directed to retreat, since the APCs were depopulated, and one was a smoking ruin. "Bullet" Bouchard, never having driven an APC, jumped into the driver's seat, but instead of turning it around, proceeded to charge it forward, crushing a bunker 10 yards beyond. Everyone except me got into an APC as we headed back to the staging area.
The APCs crossed the shallow trench where we had left a few enemy survivors. I didn't pause to say hello, but bolted across it and disappeared into the foliage before anyone could take note. As we approached the staging area, I yelled "Red Dog!" the universal password, so that I would not fall victim to "friendly fire." There I learned that we had lost Larry Winslow, our platoon comedian. It was a hard blow to bear.
After a massive artillery barrage and some air strikes, we again advanced. We had a lot less firepower the second time. And, just as before, we got bogged down in the open field. By now there were plenty of holes to jump into. The fire was so intense that we were pinned to the ground. However, as things progressed, the enemy fire slackened.
I saw a guy from Guam, a Korean War veteran, get up and run forward to a slight depression in front of him, firing into it as he got close. I thought, "Yes, that's the way to do it," so I got up and rushed a depression in front of me, thinking to catch the enemy with their heads down. As I started to crest its edge, I pressed my trigger — nothing happened! I suddenly put on the brakes, and in a disorderly fashion made an awkward U-turn and belly flopped into the nearest depression.
I looked at my M-16 and discovered that the safety was still on. How could I be so stupid? I then looked up to see Ed House advancing on another position. He was wearing his "shades," and when he got near the hole, he did a black soft-shoe step, and fired on semi-automatic. When it came to style, that would be hard to beat.
I jumped up and rushed my objective again, this time with my rifle on automatic. I splattered the depression with bullets, but no one was at home. The enemy, as it happened, was deeply and effectively ensconced in a WW I style trench that spanned our entire front. They were about 20 yards away.
After many adventures and misadventures, we ultimately rushed and overran the enemy trench. Our section was manned by a suicide squad. I took a red patch off one of their dead which declared that they resolved by oath to die for the reunification of their country. They were true to their oath. They gave no quarter and asked for none.
As a child, the first book I ever read was the Iliad, a brutal Bronze Age war story.
Now at the end of my life, as I close this Book of War, I realize that nothing in its psychology has changed one iota since the cruel age of Homer.
Biographical Details
Submitted From: Minneapolis, MN
Primary Location During Vietnam: Bin Dinh & Quang Tri Provinces, Vietnam 
Story Subject: Military Service
Military Branch: U.S. Army
Dates of Service: 1967 - 1969
Veteran Organization: -
Unit: A Company, First Battalion, Eighth Cavalry, First Air Cavalry Division
Specialty: Infantry
Story Themes: A Company, Bravo Company, Brotherhood, Close Call, Combat, Death and Loss, Eighth Cavalry, Firefight, First Air Cavalry Division, First Battalion, Friendly Fire, Huey Helicopter, Infantry, Relationships, Suicide Squad
Show Comments