Reeder - Extraordinary Valor

E XTRAORDINARY V ALOR

E XTRAORDINARY V ALOR

The Fight for Charlie Hill in Vietnam

W ILLIAM R EEDER , J R .

Guilford, Connecticut

An imprint of Globe Pequot, the trade division of

The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.

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Copyright 2022 by William Reeder, Jr.

All rights reserved . No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Reeder, William, Jr., author.

Title: Extraordinary valor : the fight for Charlie Hill in Vietnam / William Reeder, Jr.

Description: Guilford, Connecticut : Lyons Press, [2022] | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021050988 (print) | LCCN 2021050989 (ebook) | ISBN 9781493063673 (cloth) | ISBN 9781493063680 (epub)

Subjects: LCSH: Duffy, J. J. (John J.) | L, Vn M. | Easter Offensive, 1972. | Vietnam War, 1961 1975United States.

Classification: LCC DS557.8.E23 R44 2022 (print) | LCC DS557.8.E23 (ebook) | DDC 959.704/3373dc23/eng/20211028

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021050988

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021050989

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Ngi Li Charlie

Oh you
The ones who stayed at Charlie .
Oh you
The ones who died in battle .
Yes, you are the nations newest heroes ,
You are the bravest of the brave .
We mourn your passing with sorrow .

Footnote

Those Who Stayed at Charlie, written by Trn Thin Thanh in 1972. A popular song in the Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam) then, and still today among many in Vietnam and especially in overseas Vietnamese communities.

To Major John Joseph Duffy (United States Army, retired), Colonel L Vn M (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) Major on Phng Hi (Army of the Republic of Vietnam), and all the brave paratroopers of South Vietnams 11th Airborne Battalion .

This is the true story of the Battle for Charlie Hill. It is an account of the actual events and the real heroes who fought there. The dialogue used in telling the story has been crafted from the recollections of those involved. The conversations are faithful renditions drawn from their memories. This is their story.

CONTENTS

Guide

T HE EXPLOSION ROCKED THEM, THE BLAST DEAFENING IN THE night. For an instant, it lit their dirty, blood-smeared faces, their hollow eyes set in hopeless determination. A few more shells crashed around them, none as close as the first. Each blinding flash shone upon the corpses lying across the battlefield, gruesome evidence of the fight that had raged over the past days.

Hundreds lay dead over the hilltop outpostthe bodies of South Vietnamese paratroopers mixed with those of their determined North Vietnamese enemy. The hellacious battle had allowed the paratroopers to recover only some of their fallen comrades. Theyd wrapped a number in plastic ponchos and placed them in trenches. That was a while ago, earlier in the fight, when thered been time to render a modicum of respect. Later, theyd stacked other bodies in rows, as they were able. Most of the dead, though, were strewn where theyd been cut down in the last hours of combatpunctured, torn, dismembered, and shredded; grotesque reflections of their final, violent seconds of life.

The explosions stopped. The dark returned. Only the moans of the wounded pierced the silence of the night. The stench of death filled the nostrils of the last two men fighting. Smoke choked their lungs. They waited in anticipation. They heard orders shouted from across the field. They sensed movement as another attack wave swept toward them.

The American advisor leaned close to his Vietnamese counterpart and exclaimed, Shit. Here they come again.

The reply, in broken but well-practiced English, was resolute. I know. We fight. We fight more.

The enemy once again rose from the darkness, tearing through the night, coming at them as vague shapes, screaming and shooting, throwing grenades as they advanced closer, and closer still. Both U.S. Army advisor Special Forces Major John Joseph Duffy and South Vietnamese Major L Vn M, the senior surviving battalion officer, knew this was the final assault. Bullets whizzed by them. A grenade exploded, ripping a hole in Major Ms chest. He gasped for air.

John Duffy, already wounded several times himself, looked over his left shoulder. He nodded, satisfied, seeing the decimated force, all that was left of the once mighty 11th Airborne Battalion, escaping down the hillside. John and M, the rear guard, were all that stood between the remnants of the battalion and their annihilation.

Theyd been out of food for days. They had no water left in their canteens. Their ammunition was nearly gone. But still the American and his South Vietnamese comrade fought, and still the enemy came. There was no talk of surrender. No thought but to kill as many as they could before they were, themselves, cut down where they squatted on the edge of their abandoned positions.

L Vn M strained to speak. Fight, Duffy. Fight.

They battled with everything that remained in their hearts and souls, but the end of their road was only minutes away. They knew they were about to die.

T WENTY YEARS EARLIER, A YOUNG BOY SAT ATOP A WATER BUFFALO , leading another. The animals grazed lazily in a small, muddy field on a simple family farmstead near the village of Mu Ti in the countryside six miles from the old imperial capital city of Hu, Vietnam. The sun burned in the sky. The day was typically hot, the air heavy with humidity. The boy wore dark cotton shorts and no shirt. His feet were bare. A wide straw hat covered his head. In one hand, he held a wooden switch. He sat on the buffalo quietly, his mind adrift in dreams of fantastic adventure.

From time to time, hed maneuver the beasts to fresh grass with smacks of the switch, shouts and kicks, and pulls on the single rein that ran from a crudely fashioned rope bridle wrapped around his animals head and strung through its large, black, rubberlike nostrils. The brute snorted, grudgingly acquiescing to the boys commands, dragging the other along.

M! M! his mother shouted from afar. Time to eat!

Im coming, Momma! he yelled. He turned his animal and urged it toward home, twisting himself halfway around and pulling the lead rope of the trailing buffalo.

As he neared the farmstead, he leaped to the ground and led the two animals outside a small, open-sided, thatch-roofed pen beside the house. There he drew water from a concrete cistern. He dumped buckets of water over their backs and used a scrub brush to wash the red mud from their hides. Only then did he lead them into the pen and tie them for the night. He washed himself before heading inside to eat.

L Vn M was a good boy, hardworking, and respectful. He came into the world in 1942, the second of nine children, the oldest a sister. That left him lots of responsibility as the eldest son in a large family. Hed routinely help his father on the farm. That included chores with the chickens and pigs, tending the garden, and using the buffalo to plow their small fields. He also oversaw much of the work of his siblings, assisting them as they needed help. All the while, he went to school and studied hard.

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