Get Me Outta Here!

Author: Chuck Dahm

Getting into Viet Nam was easy. Getting out was expected to be the same.

 

The red clay of the area in and around Khe Sanh gave everything we had a red bronze tint to it. Clothing, gear, and even our skin had the reddish hue that made us an indigenous part of the very land we hated. Whether we liked it or not we were Khe Sanh. We made it what it was, we made it exist, we and only we would allow it to die.

The NVA could not take Khe Sanh away from the Marines. Maybe during the siege, the enemy limited us to certain areas or for our own safety we placed certain restrictions on ourselves. Under no circumstances did they ever have us ‘pinned down’ as the media would have it. Daily patrols outside the wire were conducted, some lasting weeks at a time. I was in a special weapons platoon attached to L/3/26.

It’s April ’68 now and the enemy has relaxed a little, hitting us only every two or three hours with rockets. They continue their efforts on some of the larger cities south of us defended by the US Army and the South Vietnamese Army. The shelling, snipers, and raids in the wire will soon be of no concern to me because I have just received orders to rotate home. It just doesn’t get any shorter than this. The five of us leaving together have orders to report to Da Nang, to catch a flight home. Of course, the only way out of Khe Sanh is by cargo plane.

All Marines will be leaving in the next few weeks as we are turning the defense of Khe Sanh over to the Army’s First Air Cavalry. hearing this brings a strange feeling to us all. We’re glad to be leaving but we have an attachment to this place in that it was paid for with our blood and energy and now we have to just give it up. According to Re con reports the enemy is regrouping in the southern areas and is planning major offensives and it’s natural that Marines go where the fun is. I give some of my combat gear to my friends and say ‘get some’ for the last time.

The pace to the airstrip is fast and we discuss the first thing each of us will do upon arrival home. We can see the airstrip is cratered so badly that it cannot be repaired fast enough. The constant bombardment of the rockets has taken its toll. Supply planes cannot land to replenish food, ammo, and personnel, but American ingenuity will prevail. The Air Force devised a way of pulling the pallets out of the back of the aircraft with a drag chute as they slowed and skimmed the runway. The big cargo planes would land occasionally but only for medevac or to bring in troops. Taking troops out of Khe Sanh was number ten on the list of their priorities.

We were all exactly thirteen months and even a day or two over our required time in this tour and very anxious to leave. No amount of persuading including begging or bribing the traffic officer could get us on a plane that day. We scavenged food from somewhere and shared it with all. Then we waited. The next day, two or three planes actually land, now that the strip is repaired. They are unloaded in a few minutes and take off immediately, but not all are going to Da Nang. We slept next to the control shack sandwiched between sandbags and our seabags full of clothes. Why they made us bring one hundred pounds of summer and winter dress uniforms to a combat zone I’ll never know.

Dawn brings the same bad news: ‘no authorization of troop removal from Khe Sanh Combat Base at this time.’ All we can do is hang around the airstrip and wait. We really feel we’re going to get out of here today; the traffic officer says there is a transport coming in about 1300 One of the Marines, Corporal Flowers, has a camera so we walk to the rear area and I buy some film for it to take a few last-minute pictures. As 1300 rolls around the plane lands, is unloaded and a few officers get off and it heads for the end of the run way. We ask when we are supposed to get on and are told there has been a change of plans: it’s not going back to Da Nang.

Sgt Marshall Jesperson of San Luis Obispo, CA, consoled us with his anger. I had been with Sgt Jess about eight months and I knew when he was determined to do something, it got done. He talked to the traffic officer for quite a while, being very animated with his gestures, pointing toward us, the airstrip, Da Nang, and probably making some pretty strong statements for an enlisted man to an officer. All the time the officer was shaking his head no, only frustrating him more. It seems we are stuck here another day.

The morning of the third day we knew we were going to leave regardless of any consequences. The first plane landed early. Our only concern now was to determine where it was going from here. This one and each succeeding plane had a destination other than ours. Finally, around noon, a camouflage C-130 cargo plane landed, was unloaded and was heading for the end of the strip to take off. Sgt Jess was talking to the traffic officer when I saw him abruptly turn toward us and said, ‘This is it, come on.’

We grabbed our bags with one hand and M-16s in the other and ran across the airstrip towards the plane. By now it was at the end of the strip and was revving its engines getting ready to take off. The traffic officer was yelling we couldn’t get on that plane and to get off the run way. I turned around to see him rip off the headphones and start chasing us. We never even broke stride. We fought for thirteen months for our country and now it’s our turn and we will not be denied. The desperation has gone beyond worrying about any non-combat traffic officer screaming commands at us. In a pure Marine style, we are about to move forward against all odds.

At this point everything seemed to be in slow motion. I just can’t run fast enough. The props are revving even faster, driving every piece of dirt and sand into my eyes. My chest is at the point of exploding. Pain shoots down the shin of my left leg. Sgt Jess is screaming ‘c’mon, c’mon, we can make it.’ His voice inspired us to ignore the pain and press even harder. The plane is moving down the runway now with the bottom of the back door almost all the way closed and the top starting to close. The plane is picking up speed and we are having a hard time keeping up with these heavy bags slam ming into the back of our legs. We were due, we have taken fate into our own hands by disobeying an officer. There can be no turning back, no stopping. We must reach this plane. We’re so close now I can see inside the back of the cargo hold. The door operator has his hand on a control box closing the rear doors and is motioning for us to stop and get back. Sgt Jess is closest and with a final effort swings his bag and gets it across the closing bottom door. This must be what scoring the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl feels like with one second left in the game.

The rear door controller, seeing this, talks into his microphone and the plane slows. The bottom door drops open slowly and we all throw our bags on, shoulder our weapons and climb in. I feel the rush of the plane as the engines reach maximum speed and in seconds, we are airborne. Nobody talks, we are all too winded and the noise inside the back of a cargo plane is deafening. Even if we could talk, we wouldn’t have to. Our faces tell it all. From here the trip home is easy. One day in Da Nang, one day in Okinawa and on to California. In a matter of hours, I’m in Wisconsin thinking three days ago this was only something I could dream about.

HOME!

Source note: The Khe Sanh Veteran, Issue No. 38, Spring, 1997, pp 8-9.