The Fire
May 24, 1969
by Glyn Haynie
May 24, 1969
by Glyn Haynie
Glyn Haynie and Mike Dankert
In late May, we were still working off Highway 1. Enemy presence surrounded us—ambushes, sniper attacks, NVA sightings. Our mission: flush them out. The heat pressed down harder than usual, and we hadn't received supplies in days. Food and water were running low. My last full meal had been twenty-four hours ago. All I had left was one can of applesauce and a cup of water in my canteen. We usually carried four to six quarts of water and three to five days of rations. We needed resupply.
Captain Tyson radioed Lieutenant Baxter with new orders—enemy movement on top of the mountain, five klicks from our position. Helicopters would pick us up and drop us on the mountaintop. We cleared a landing zone, cutting elephant grass and pushing it flat against the ground, then waited. Within an hour, three helicopters landed, and the First Platoon boarded. We sat on the floor, legs pulled in, weapons between our knees, muzzles pointed down. The policy was weapons on safe, chamber empty.
As we flew toward the mountaintop, I was certain this would be a hot landing zone—enemy waiting. I'm sure everyone else thought so, too. Whenever we expected contact, we ignored the rules. We chambered rounds.
The helicopter circled the landing zone. Below, large plumes of smoke and fire rose from the artillery and Huey gunships that had prepped the hilltop. Lieutenant Baxter must have called in the fire, but Lieutenant Colonel Ellis said the mission was a go.
The helicopters made a rapid descent. Those who hadn't already chambered rounds locked and loaded. We jumped off before the skids touched ground, hitting hard and fanning out to secure the zone. As the platoon gathered, fire burned everything behind us and to both sides. Flames climbed the trees and tall brush. The crackling of burning wood roared in our ears. Thick, toxic smoke choked us.
We moved toward the only site without flames, pushing through jungle growth, searching for the VC. The fire crept closer. The wind shifted. There was plenty of fuel where we stood. The approaching flames seemed to reach the sky, their roar growing louder. Fire singed our clothing, rucksacks, and hair. The heat became unbearable. Squads broke formation—we just followed whoever was in front of us.
Mike Dankert and I found ourselves together. We ran along a trail and escaped the fire's path. The platoon halted. Mike pulled a can of pears from his rucksack, popped it open, and immediately sucked down the juice. He passed it to me—my first liquid in hours. After we drained the juice, he shared the pears.
Mike and I were afraid. Our fear produced some silent communication, an understanding between us. Without discussing what we'd do if the fire caught us, we agreed on a plan. Without words, we knew. Mike and I would not burn to death. We trusted each other completely. Our friendship began that day.
Within minutes, the fire found us again, feeding on fresh fuel. We ran downward along the mountainside. The wind kept changing. Lieutenant Baxter took point and led us off the mountaintop, fighting through thorn bushes, clearing a trail as he went. Several men dropped their gear and screamed to move faster as flames licked at our clothing. We heard the panic in their voices. My throat was bone dry. Fear trapped my screams inside. As I ran, I forgot about the NVA. The fire was our enemy now.
We made it to the bottom. No casualties.
At the base of the trail, we found a stagnant pond. Water buffalo shit probably floating in it. We dropped our equipment and weapons and knelt or lay on our stomachs, drinking our first water in hours, washing smoke from our eyes.
No one got sick.
After a short rest, we got the word: climb the hill next to the one we'd just escaped. From where we stood, it looked impossibly high and steep. We were tired, hot, hungry, and thirsty. We didn't want to make that climb.
But we did.
The platoon started up and reached the top an hour before nightfall. Exhausted, we didn't give a shit if we ran into the enemy or not. If we had, it would've been a massacre—us losing. I didn't have the strength to fight.
Once we set up positions, the supply chopper arrived with food and water just before sunset.
Something good was ending this disastrous day.
Captain Tyson radioed Lieutenant Baxter with new orders—enemy movement on top of the mountain, five klicks from our position. Helicopters would pick us up and drop us on the mountaintop. We cleared a landing zone, cutting elephant grass and pushing it flat against the ground, then waited. Within an hour, three helicopters landed, and the First Platoon boarded. We sat on the floor, legs pulled in, weapons between our knees, muzzles pointed down. The policy was weapons on safe, chamber empty.
As we flew toward the mountaintop, I was certain this would be a hot landing zone—enemy waiting. I'm sure everyone else thought so, too. Whenever we expected contact, we ignored the rules. We chambered rounds.
The helicopter circled the landing zone. Below, large plumes of smoke and fire rose from the artillery and Huey gunships that had prepped the hilltop. Lieutenant Baxter must have called in the fire, but Lieutenant Colonel Ellis said the mission was a go.
The helicopters made a rapid descent. Those who hadn't already chambered rounds locked and loaded. We jumped off before the skids touched ground, hitting hard and fanning out to secure the zone. As the platoon gathered, fire burned everything behind us and to both sides. Flames climbed the trees and tall brush. The crackling of burning wood roared in our ears. Thick, toxic smoke choked us.
We moved toward the only site without flames, pushing through jungle growth, searching for the VC. The fire crept closer. The wind shifted. There was plenty of fuel where we stood. The approaching flames seemed to reach the sky, their roar growing louder. Fire singed our clothing, rucksacks, and hair. The heat became unbearable. Squads broke formation—we just followed whoever was in front of us.
Mike Dankert and I found ourselves together. We ran along a trail and escaped the fire's path. The platoon halted. Mike pulled a can of pears from his rucksack, popped it open, and immediately sucked down the juice. He passed it to me—my first liquid in hours. After we drained the juice, he shared the pears.
Mike and I were afraid. Our fear produced some silent communication, an understanding between us. Without discussing what we'd do if the fire caught us, we agreed on a plan. Without words, we knew. Mike and I would not burn to death. We trusted each other completely. Our friendship began that day.
Within minutes, the fire found us again, feeding on fresh fuel. We ran downward along the mountainside. The wind kept changing. Lieutenant Baxter took point and led us off the mountaintop, fighting through thorn bushes, clearing a trail as he went. Several men dropped their gear and screamed to move faster as flames licked at our clothing. We heard the panic in their voices. My throat was bone dry. Fear trapped my screams inside. As I ran, I forgot about the NVA. The fire was our enemy now.
We made it to the bottom. No casualties.
At the base of the trail, we found a stagnant pond. Water buffalo shit probably floating in it. We dropped our equipment and weapons and knelt or lay on our stomachs, drinking our first water in hours, washing smoke from our eyes.
No one got sick.
After a short rest, we got the word: climb the hill next to the one we'd just escaped. From where we stood, it looked impossibly high and steep. We were tired, hot, hungry, and thirsty. We didn't want to make that climb.
But we did.
The platoon started up and reached the top an hour before nightfall. Exhausted, we didn't give a shit if we ran into the enemy or not. If we had, it would've been a massacre—us losing. I didn't have the strength to fight.
Once we set up positions, the supply chopper arrived with food and water just before sunset.
Something good was ending this disastrous day.