All my life there was never a doubt that I would serve in the military. I collected “Sergeant Rock” comic books and read them over and over again through out my teenage years. After graduating high school and discovering Budweiser beer and cheerleaders in junior college I was drafted in September of 1967.
A hot muggy day in March of 1968 found Jerry Owens and I aboard a helicopter bound for LZ Jane about 10 miles southwest of Quang Tri. Jerry and I had met at Fort Polk’s Tiger Land where we were in the same training company. We both had been assigned to D Company 2nd Bn., 12th Cav.
The helicopter touched down in a cloud of red dust and the door gunner screamed at us to jump. My feet had barely touched the ground when the bird was airborne again. As soon as the rotor wash calmed down, the sights and smells of a forward firebase poured over me. The odors of burning latrines, sweat, and dirt were overwhelming and it took a few moments to get oriented. Soon a soldier in tattered fatigue pants and a dirty green tee shirt pointed us in the direction of the First Sergeant’s tent and told us to hustle over there. We did and reported in. We completed some paperwork and were told to wait and someone from the platoons would come and pick us up.
Soon Jerry was taken to join his new platoon. I waited for a while trying to make sense of my situation. So this was the Viet Nam war, not what I had expected. My new uniform stood in sharp contrast to clothing everyone else’s had on. They were all soaked with sweat, worn, many had rips and holes, and all were very dirty.
I noticed a soldier coming up the trail to where I waited. As he ascended a rise in the trail, more and more of him became visible to me. At first I could not believe my eyes but as the man came nearer I got my first and indelible impressions of Sgt. Leo Lipsie.
Wrapped around his helmet, sitting exactly two fingers above the bridge of his nose, was a long blue scarf flowing behind him in the wind. A Car-15 was slung across his shoulders and swung at his right hip like an old west gun fighter. He wore crossed bandoleers of M-16 magazines and had several hand grenades hanging from his flack jacket. He walked (more like marched) with directness and purpose. “My God”, I though, “this guy is right out of Mercenary Magazine.”
Sgt. Lipsie gathered me up and off we went to the section of perimeter that was being covered by 3rd platoon. “You are going to be my new RTO”, Lipsie said. “I’m 3rd platoon leader. We just got out of Hue and there are only 11 of us left in the platoon. Yah, I think there are only about 30 in the whole company. Charlie kicked our ass before we were able to sneak away during the night. You are one of the first replacements. You will work and stay with me.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent being introduced to the platoon and quick lessons on how to operate a “PRC – 25”. That evening Leo explained how radio watch was handled and that we would call in “sit-reps” every hour. “My call sign is Stacked Deck 36, (Deck 36) you are Stacked Deck 36 India. (Deck 36 India) The company commander is Stacked Deck 6, and the battalion commander is Roving Gambler 6.” “Radio watch starts at dusk and goes all night long. We will take shifts of one hour on and 2 or three hours of sleep, depending on how many are at our bunker.”
As the sun set Lipsie laid out several magazines of ammo and hand grenades on the fighting wall of the bunker. “Just is case” he said. “Make sure you know where your weapon and gear are at all the times, never let get more than an arms length away from them.”
I did not have to pull first radio watch but still could not get to sleep for several hours after dark. Then sometime around 1:00 am Lipsie woke me for my turn on the radio.
The night was very dark with no moon. About ½ an hour passed when I heard several strange sounding “thumps”. More “thumps” were suddenly interrupted by the whistling and explosions of incoming 82 mm mortar rounds. Cries of “Incoming” sounded along the perimeter. I sat on top of the bunker dumbfounded. “What the hell is going on?” I have never seen mortar explosions at night only during the day in training. These looked like fireworks going off on the ground with streamers of red and orange flying off in all directions. “Who the hell is shooting off fireworks” raced through my mind. Six or eight more rounds fell and never did my body or mind tell me to duck for the cover of the fighting position on top of the bunker. I just sat there and watched the FIREWORKS SHOW. What an FNG!!
Suddenly Lipsie appeared screaming “get down, incoming! Incoming!” He scrambled into the fighting position dragging me with him. “As soon as the mortars stop the attack will begin! They will come right through the wire, get ready!” “What attack?” I yelled back. “When the mortars stop the NVA will come with a ground attack and try to overrun our bunkers to get at the artillery behind us. Get ready. I have to check the other bunkers. Stay here and man the radio. I’ll be back soon!” Off Lipsie ran silhouetted by flashes of still more mortar round explosions.
A ground attack never came, thank God. But the NVA gunners walked their mortars shells along our bunker line and into several 105mm artillery pits behind us. Several guys were wounded but none seriously. Needless to say there was no sleeping for me for the rest of the night. I stayed right there in the fighting position, eyes strained against the darkness, hugging my weapon, the radio, and Lipsie’ s hand grenades until dawn.
