It was another searing, humid day with no wind and the pungent smell was familiar.

Fortunately, we were out of the rice paddies where the water was putrid, mixed with all types of animal and human waste, disgusting leeches and mud deep enough to literally suck the energy out of your legs.

My infantry platoon of 23 young souls were patrolling southwest of Da Nang in 1970.

This time we were on dry ground with tall vegetation and wooded areas. Still, our half-dried jungle fatigues had the unmistakable stench on them from days in the paddies.

I could see we were approaching a small village of grass huts. Smoke from cooking fires drifted past us. It was late in the day and we were going to disturb their meal.

In enemy territory, our platoon would walk single file, one directly behind the other, as booby traps were a constant menace.

However, that meant someone had to walk first. He would be the “Point Man,” followed by the “Cover Man,” and then me as the Lieutenant with my M-60 machine gunner next behind me. Walking third allowed me to see what was happening when we made “contact” with the enemy and decide on response and maneuver actions.

The Point Man would look close-in for trip wires, booby traps and suspicious signs. Critical to the team was the Cover Man looking further out for enemy movement or potential ambushes.

The Point Man was in a super high-risk position and so we rotated this amongst the platoon.

On this day, as we silently approached the huts, we met with women and children. They were scared as we startled them and quickly enveloped them. They seemed to be especially agitated and nervous. An inspection of the area was slow, and darkness was coming fast.

We found nothing, but something wasn’t right. There were no men. The women seemed worried.

Days earlier, we lost a soldier to a booby trap that killed him instantly.

While crossing rice paddies, we got fired upon from the distance, forcing us to dive head first into the brown water.

We also had come into a similar collection of thatched hootches and several NVA jumped up and ran, totally surprised by our approach. We killed two of them instantly.

As nightfall was coming, the Company Commander called me on the radio and ordered me to return and join them for a night position or defensive laager.

Tension was high. It got worse knowing we would take an hour or more to reach the company and it was already dark.
The Point Man to lead us said he simply wouldn’t do it. Others reacted negatively and were scared.

I had no experienced soldiers or sergeants to rely on and I wanted to avoid conflict.

I decided that I would walk “Point” myself, even as I knew that none of them could effectively read a map with a lensatic compass. These were times when we had no electronic devices for GPS or satellite coordinates. If something happened to me, they would be challenged.

I would learn what it was like to be the “Point Man.”

There were many times we made “contact” with the enemy when bullets were flying all around. Quixotically, I felt excited, not really “fearful,” as the adrenaline kicked in. But this was very different. I was really scared. I could not show it, but I felt it.

It was terror with each step. The anticipation was brutal. No flashlights allowed, of course, my eyes bugged out of my head in the darkness trying to see a trip wire or enemy hiding in the bushes.

Minutes seemed like hours. I stopped as we emerged from trees and had to cross an open field. It was not completely dark, but at one point, I saw the silhouette to my right. I crouched and fired two rounds from my M-16.

Nothing moved. I waited. Behind me my platoon was frozen, waiting for my signal.

Instead, I stood up, wiped sweat dripping into my eyes, and moved on.

We eventually made it back to Bravo Company and relief came over everyone.

I was exhausted.

The next day, I learned my platoon would not be “point” this time for the company’s march to a new position not far from the hootches we left.

This time it would be easy for us.

As the last platoon to enter the perimeter on a slight hill overlooking a collection of grass huts a mile away, I was directed to one section that would complete the defensive circle.

As I was directing men to their positions for the night, my machine gunner was exhausted, hot and generally upset about everything. To avoid digging a new foxhole from scratch, he jumped into an old, half dug foxhole which was booby trapped.
The explosion was horrific.
He was killed instantly and nine of us were on Medivacs to medical aid stations and Division hospitals.

I woke up two days later wondering if it was all a dream.

I also wondered who was walking “Point” that day.
John Shoemaker can be reached at shoerfid@yahoo.com.