1st Battalion 22nd Infantry Belis Stories Page 6

1st Battalion 22nd Infantry

The Jungle

The LP

Guard duty at our night time positions in the jungle consisted of taking turns sitting in the foxhole and listening for sounds. Many times I was in a foxhole with a PRC-25 radio tuned to the platoon frequency. We used the handset to talk on, by depressing and holding down a rectangular “button” on the handset when we wanted to talk. When we depressed that button, for just an instant, it caused static over the radio. This sound was known as “breaking squelch”. At designated intervals during the night the guy monitoring the radio in the platoon command element would check all of the positions by calling out their individual call signs one by one, and requesting a “sitrep” (situation report) from each of them. We watched the luminous dials of our wrist watches and knew at the designated times to pick up the handset and listen for the “sitrep” check.

At night we turned the volume on our radios down so that sounds coming over it could only be heard by putting the handset touching our ear. Rather than having everybody talk over the radio at night, only the command element would actually talk. The command element would call out each position’s call sign and each position would acknowledge its situation report by “breaking squelch”. If all was well at our position we depressed the button once and “broke squelch” once. That relayed a negative “sitrep” which meant nothing was happening, everything was okay. If we detected movement in front of us or things were otherwise not well at our position we depressed the button twice and “broke squelch” twice. That would notify the command element that something was wrong at our position, and we could then clarify it by talking over the radio if possible. If not possible for us to talk, then those in command would have to figure out what to do about it.

One night at our position we shared our foxhole with a monkey. We couldn’t see him in the dark but we heard him as he went through our empty and half eaten c-ration cans which we tossed down into one end of the foxhole. He scared me at first, then aggravated me with the noise he was making. As we took turns on guard he did the same to the other guys at our position.

Sometimes we would set up a position called an LP, or Listening Post. This consisted of two or three men occupying a position some distance away from the rest of the platoon, in order to give advance warning of enemy movement toward the platoon. It was called an LP instead of an OP, or Observation Post, because in the jungle at night we couldn’t see, we could only listen for sounds.

One night, only a few nights after I had shared the foxhole with the monkey, Robert Reider and I were detailed together on an LP. The platoon was dug in along a ridgeline, and just before dark Reider and I went down the incline from that ridgeline, and out into where the terrain flattened out, and dug a foxhole. At the back of the hole we dug a shelf where we could sit, with our heads and shoulders above the hole. To the best of my recollection we were about 50 meters away from the rest of the guys.

In the jungle those 50 meters may as well have been 50 miles. In the pitch black darkness it was impossible to walk in the jungle at night. We would hit a tree, or a vine, or a bush, or step in a hole because we couldn’t see where we were going. It was impossible to make our way. Crawling was the same. We could crawl for short distances, for instance, from our hooch to our foxhole. But crawling for anything more than a little ways produced the same results as trying to walk. We would come up against a tree, or exposed roots, or get tangled in vines we couldn’t see, and the effect was to be disoriented and lose direction. We could sit there in the daytime and memorize everything around us, but after it got dark, if we tried to move too far we could bump into something that could throw off our memory and we would lose our way immediately and get totally lost.

Reider and I sat in that hole, knowing full well that we would not be leaving it until daylight, and we both would be awake all night long. We had a radio and when the command element called our call sign of Lima Poppa, I would “break squelch” once to let them know everything was okay. A couple of minutes past 11:00 pm I heard noise and detected movement to our front. It scared the hell out of me and I froze. I heard it again and got even more scared. Then I remembered the monkey in the foxhole from several nights before and felt foolish and even embarrassed for getting scared. I almost laughed, and was glad it was so dark, so Reider couldn’t see how scared I had been. I heard the noise again and this time I wasn’t scared. Then I heard it again, and could tell it was moving across the area. I would hear it and then all would be quiet and then I would hear it again. It was definitely moving around out there. There was something about that sound. Something awful familiar. I knew that sound but couldn’t quite place it.

As I searched my memory for that sound it came to me. Back in training one of the aspects of our physical training was an exercise called the low crawl. This was where we crawled on our belly, using our hands and our legs to propel us across a long stretch of canvas mat or across bare ground. It seemed to be a favorite exercise of the Army during our training. The drill instructors at Fort Polk had us low crawling all over the place. We low crawled slowly, we low crawled fast. We had low crawl races. We low crawled so much we could hear the sound we made as we low crawled, even in our sleep. That sound was unmistakable, and was the sound our bodies and canvas web gear made as we dragged ourselves across the ground.

There in the jungle that night in the dark, as I heard that sound in front of my position, a dreadful awareness came over me as I recognized that sound. I was not listening to an animal, but instead listening to a soldier crawling around in the dark. As I realized that was what I was hearing, I became even more scared than before. I leaned close to Reider, and as low as I could, I whispered “movement”, and he whispered back “I hear it”. The noise continued and we sat unmoving in our hole. The sound indicated it was slow and deliberate movement, that whoever was out there was slowly and carefully making their way across the jungle floor, as quietly as they could. From time to time it would change direction, and we heard it as it moved across our front, to our side and back again. There were stretches of no noise or movement and then we would hear it again. When it came time for the situation request from command, I squeezed the button twice, which let command know we detected movement.

Reider and I both understood we were now in a bad situation. An enemy soldier couldn’t see us in the dark, but was crawling around trying to find us. We couldn’t move or make a sound. If we did it would tell the enemy exactly where we were. We couldn’t toss hand grenades out in the direction of the movement, because we didn’t have any grenades. We couldn’t shoot our rifles in the direction of the movement, because in the dark there was no guarantee we would hit the enemy, and our muzzle flashes would right away tell the enemy where we were.

When we “broke squelch” twice we had told the guys on the ridgeline above us that we had movement, so we knew they had all been awakened and alerted to the fact that there was enemy below them. That was enough to make some of them scared or jumpy, and could make someone nervous and quick with their trigger finger. If we started shooting, or tried to make our way back up the ridgeline, they might well open up on us thinking we were the enemy. That was confirmed at the next situation request when I “broke squelch” twice again, and instead of a reply that said “Roger Lima Poppa”, I got a reply of “Roger Lima Poppa we’re all awake up here”.

As the night wore on the movement intermittently continued, and was accompanied by more movement, a little farther away. The soldier had been joined by another, and maybe more. I sat perfectly still, listening to more than one enemy soldier crawling around in the dark, looking for us. I was absolutely petrified with fear. At one point I felt my heart was beating so fast and so loud that I was convinced it was giving my position away. I tried to hold my breath and concentrate on slowing my heart down, and to some extent that worked. At least I felt it wasn’t beating so loud anymore. I tried not to move a single muscle in my body but carefully would glance at my wrist watch from time to time. When the next situation request came due, I ever so slowly, quietly and delicately raised the handset to my ear, and when I heard our call sign I squeezed the button twice, letting the command element know we still had movement.

A couple of times it sounded like the movement was as close as a few feet away, and those moments were especially frightening. After a while the noises started to fade, as if they were moving away from us. I glanced down at my watch and the time was a few minutes past one in the morning. We had been hearing the enemy crawl around out there for two hours. Within a few minutes the noises faded to next to nothing and then stopped altogether. At the next situation request I brought the handset up to my ear and squeezed the button once, indicating a negative “sitrep”. The reply I heard was “Roger Lima Poppa glad to hear it.”

When daylight came I looked at Reider and asked him “man, were you as scared as I was?” His reply was “I was so scared I was afraid to breathe.” I had been scared in my life many times before that and have been scared many times since then. In April 1971, at the end of my tour in Vietnam, I experienced a night attack against the small compound I was at. That attack was so impressive and scary that for a while there, I believed I was going to die that night.

But I can honestly say, that I have never in my life been as absolutely terrified as I was that night on LP. Reider and I sat in that hole, and for two hours were scared beyond belief as we listened to the bad guys crawl around in the dark looking for us. Thank God they never found us.

Stand down at the Base Camp at An Khê October 1970,
after we had been pulled out of the jungle.
Me on the left, Robert Reider on the right.

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