Corridor of Blood
Major Huynh Van Phu
The unthinkable had happened - the NVA had crossed the Ben Hai River with a thousand tanks and 130 Artillery rockets. On April 1st 1972, the onslaught was so vicious, that we lost all our fire support bases along the DMZ.
Life at My Chanh went on. People were milling about, carry on with their lives. Little did they know that only one month later, My Chanh would become the centre of a history battle. It was to become a name that would make every Marine proud. It was at My Chanh that the steps of the invaders were stopped.
On April 15th, I left Saigon where, I had been attending a retraining course in Thu Duc Military School. During the period between the 10th to the 30th of April, the 369th Marine Brigade and its 5th, 7th, and 9th Battalions performed operations to the north and north west of My Chanh. The area was approximatrely 200 kilometers square. Within the area were bases Nancy, Barabara, and the Ong Do Cave - the positions that stood against the enemy and Quang Tri in the south west. My unit was positioned at Nancy, which was to the left of the National Route 1. The base was 1km northwest of the My Chanh bridge. My unit was then secretly moved to a small village next to the railway. For one month, we took care of the area of responsibility around it. All units of the 369th Marine Battalion fought hard under difficult conditions. They were up against the enemy at the battalion level daily, and endured continuous 130mm shellings continuously. Medevac was carried out on foot. Wounded Marines were carried on litters for distances of up to 10km along mountainous paths. Somehow, the Marines managed to keep their morale, and thwarted all enemy attempts to advance. Quang Tri was in great danger of being isolated if the segment of Route 1 between Hue and Quang Tri City was severed. The enemy became increasingly frustrated, and stepped up their resolve. The 1st Marine Artillery Battalion had to move constantly to avoid being targetted. But the enemy continued to train their rockets and guns at them - NVA forward observers were very efficient at rectify the co-ordinates. A few forward observers were caught from time to time, but that did not ease the shellings.
I've heard the noise of 122mm and 240mm artillery, but neither are as bad as the screech of a 130mm artillery shell. They had a range of 27 km, and they flew through the sky as noisy as any jet. Shrapnel from one of these deadly things were about the size of a cup, and had a range of 200m. It was impossible to guess where the enemy hid these guns. As soon as the departing sounds were heard, the explosions would come within 5-7 seconds. They use to fire two rounds at a time. The soldiers would scream: “Here comes a pair!” and scoot for their lives into the bunkers. They ducked and emerged continuously all day. It was a ridiculous thing to do all day. Once a piece of shrapnel hit me on the head. It was as if someone had knocked me on my steel helmet. God, I loved my helmet!
One day, they pounded us with hundreds of rounds. Clouds of dust swirled everywhere. The explosions deafened us. But it was good to be deafened, and feel dust in your face - it meant that you were alive, and that you could afford to look after your brothers. When they finished, we were relieved to find that we had only lost one. It was a direct hit onto a bunker, and three others were left wounded. Needless to say, we were all generally tense during the shellings - but that didn't stop us form clapping and cheering whenever we heard a dud fall. Laughing was more to relieve the pressure and tension. I appreciated the bunkers greatly. Whenever we had to move, the thing I would miss most was my last bunker. Bunkers bring to mind the miracle of the Earth. The Earth nourishes us, protects us, and when we die, she envelopes us again. Friend or foe, all ultimately return to the Earth. She takes us in as equals, yet humans only see their differences, and they hate, and they kill...
During that period, Night merged into Day, and Day into Night. The days were hot and humid, and there was absolutely no wind to cool our sweating foreheads. My ears rang from the non-stop artillery shelling and gun fire. At night, the sky was clear and full of stars. We were able to admire the constellations and wish ourselves elsewhere, The Great Bear and the North Star shone brightly over Quang Tri City. The occasional flare went up to aid the Naval guns. From time to time, I saw SAM rockets shoot up at aircarfts.
Up to that stage, the Marine defensive line west of the My Chanh was as solid as a stone table, and it was inconceivable that we would lose Quang Tri. But for three consecutive days starting from the 28th of April 1972, the enemy concentrated their artillery on Quang Tri.
Terrified civilians herd their family together and tried to escape to Hue. The segment of the National Route 1 from Quang Tri to My Chanh was blocked by refugees for two days. The mass exodus southwards began on the 29th and was still flowing on the 30th. The meandering stream of people was made of thousands of personal miseries. I watched them flee for their lives with pity. A young man was carrying a blind relative on his back, an exhausted mother heaving along the family's belongs with a child tucked in a basket, an entire family pushing a cart that could barely carry their belongings, furniture, the pet pig. The husband smiled wanly as I photographed the tragedy. Did he smile because he was in the photo, or was it a bitter smile at Life's ironies? Beside the road, an old man sat heaving for breath with his two young grandchildren. Further on, a disabled elderly woman struggled along. Her elongated shadow stretched eerily on the road as dusk fell on the 29th of April 1972.
In front of the position of the 5th Marine Battalion, the soldiers had placed their water supply out for the civilians. Others offered their meager rations of cooked rice to the starving families. These poor people were, however, the lucky ones. They had at least made it to My Chanh. Others further back were caught between the crossfire at Ben Da Bridge. This segment of National route 1 became a corridor of blood as civilians fell to the merciless onslaught of the enemy. Exploiting a gap left by the 7th Marine Battalion, the enemy commanded the bridge, burning civilian vehicles and shooting indiscriminately as they went.
They then began pounding 130mm salvos onto the human stream. Vehicles were upturned like toy cars, and families were savagely blown apart. Not a single family escaped southwards unscathed. That was what the NVA meant by “Liberation of the South”. They indeed “liberated” the souls of many innocent civilians from this wretched world, and saw nothing wrong in liberating the dead and the living of their possessions.
Major Huynh Van Phu
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