Doggone Lucky

 During that brief shelling period, one round obliterated the team outhouse! Quite literally, [the dog] had saved my rear-end!

Contributed by Franklin Evans



"INCOMING!"

As any combat veteran of an enemy mortar or artillery attack can tell you, that one word grabs your attention and causes an immediate response. Whether diving for a bunker or some other available cover, most combat veterans don't hesitate to take immediate action. As a young officer in the highlands of Vietnam, I was no different. Upon hearing that word, I spared no time making for safety!

Assigned as a liaison office to a Special Forces A Team Detachment near DakTo, Republic of Vietnam in early 1969, I had many occasions to head for immediate cover. In fact, my months as a rifle platoon leader with the Fourth Infantry Division had prepared me well for combat survival skills including, when necessary, seeking overhead cover from VC or NVA indirect mortar attacks. My duties as LNO included coordinating friendly indirect fire support for the camp and for the daily Special Forces-led patrols that our Montagnard Civilian Irregular Defense Group allies conducted. The camp was situated about seven miles east of the "tri-border" area of Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam and had the mission of over watching the Ho Chi Minh Trail in an attempt to interdict the massive flow of supplies headed south. As you might guess, the enemy targeted our camp with their artillery from across the borders and supplemented those fires with 60mm and 82mm mortars from the hills close by as they probed and scouted our defensive positions on the three hills upon which the camp sat. The SF advisors and their guests from the Fourth Division, which included a tank platoon and a 105mm howitzer battery, had adjusted to the daily interruption of 30-40 rounds impacting on our camp. Although there was no pattern to the times that the rounds were delivered, we knew that we could just about count on having our lunch inside the bunkers while explosions rocked the terrain above. A frequent guest during lunch (and at any other times we were receiving incoming rounds) was a large, playful cur that shared our bunkers' safe refuge. The scraggly mutt had somehow escaped the cooking pots of our allies and attached herself to the American soldiers assigned to Ben Het. She was tagged with a name that rhymed with "war" but one that more aptly described her evident promiscuous and resultant seemingly constant pregnant state. In fact, I cannot recall ever seeing puppies (cooking pots?) and often wondered where the father of her offspring came from. During my time there I never saw another dog in camp, male or otherwise. Perhaps the local VC had their own mascot that visited our camp in the wee hours of the morning?

What may have been the main contributing factor to Whore's survival and tolerance in the camp was her ability to hear and react quickly to the artillery rounds sent from the prepared concrete bunkers used by the NVA to the west. I had actually observed those bunkers once when, as a passenger in an O1E Birddog with an Air Force Forward Air Controller, we had marked their locations with rockets for the F-105's to engage. Six to eight 250 pound bombs failed to silence them, however. Whenever artillery rounds were launched from those bunkers enroute to us, Whore's ears would go straight up, her head would raise and she was a blur of fur heading for the nearest covered location! Of course, her keen ears picked up the sounds of those guns firing 2-3 seconds before any human ear could. Usually our first indication of rounds being fired our way was the sound of a round flying inbound just before it erupted in a loud explosion. Then we scurried for cover as more rounds impacted. By that time Whore was safely tucked away in the command bunker or under a makeshift bunk in the sleeping quarters. Those of us lucky enough to be near her when her ears picked up the sounds of firing artillery had a 2-3 second head start and early warning over those who weren't close enough to see Whore's predictable reaction. She had become a valuable, dependable early warning device.

During those early months of '69, I had become somewhat amazed at the ingenuity of the SF advisors in providing some small comforts that eased their stay on those exposed hilltops near the Ho Chi Minh trail. They actually had constructed a small 'club' with a bar and cold beer! Although not underground nor even adequately sandbagged, this small building provided a measure of comfort and a place for evenings of limited relaxation with cold Ba Muy Ba or Bier LaRue. Hot meals were prepared there as a reprieve from the constant fare of C-rations or LRRPs. Just outside the 'club' was a 'one-holer' for the additional comfort of those assigned. Recognizable for it's typical construction characteristics (just like at home) the outdoor facility was situated on a little bare knoll about 30 feet from the rear entrance of the sleeping bunker. At nights it was peaceful to just sit and observe the stars through the cracks in the plank door while taking care of business. As they say, almost heaven!

One hot and sweaty day around lunchtime, I was perched on the handcrafted seat in the one-holer while taking care of business. Relaxing with a copy of "Stars and Stripes" in my hands and reading about some lucky airman's views on R&R in Australia at Queen's Cross, I felt removed for a few minutes from the hilltop near the tri-border. I glanced at Whore through the cracks in the door as she dosed in the dust outside and enjoyed the rays of the hot sunshine. She must have been dreaming of her occasional midnight visitor because she appeared to have a smile on her face and whimpered a bit in her sleep. Suddenly as I watched, Whore raised her head and pointed her ears skyward! Her sleep had been interrupted by those faraway too familiar sounds. The NVA was at it again! Before I heard any indication of the incoming artillery rounds, Whore was up on her feet and streaking for the nearest entrance to the sleeping bunker. Trained and conditioned combat veteran that I was, I didn't hesitate either! I burst through the plank door of the outhouse with pants down around my ankles and stumbled and scrambled for the same hole in the ground that Whore had just disappeared into. I dove down the dirt steps just as rounds began landing near the 'clubhouse.' A couple of the SF sergeants had been napping in their bunks, and they looked up as I dove through the door and quickly tried to pull up my pants. They began laughing even as the rounds continued to impact above us. It must have been pretty funny to them as the fearful, young Lieutenant struggled with his trousers. At the time I didn't see the humor in my near death experience, but later had a good laugh about it, too.

During that brief shelling period, one round obliterated the team outhouse! Quite literally, Whore had saved my rear-end!

Post Script: Several days later on a nearby hilltop, an NVA Lieutenant was killed by a friendly patrol from Ben Het. He was equipped with binoculars and, from his journal, it was determined that his job had been to observe and adjust artillery rounds on our camp. I couldn't help wondering if he was on duty the day I had to scramble for my life. If so, after observing my visit to the outhouse with his binoculars, did he plan the artillery fire mission with the intent to interrupt my few minutes of leisure?