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We got word one morning telling us that Fire Base Neville had been socked in so long that they were out of water and radio batteries. We already had a couple of platoons out, so it was up to one platoon and the CP to take water and batteries up to Neville.
A fire base was simply the top of a hill where we had an artillery battery and a company of infantry to protect it. The artillery would shoot support fire for the infantry units in the field. Neville was north of the Rockpile, up toward the DMZ, and had a reputation of having a lot of enemy activity around it. We didn't much want to go up there, but we didn't have much voice in the matter, either.
So, we loaded on choppers and were inserted at the base of the mountain on which Neville sat at the top. The hump that day really wasn't all that bad, as I remember, from the standpoint of undergrowth which was impeding our march. It seems that we had a pretty clear trail all the time, actually. The hard part of this hump was that each of us was carrying a radio battery and water. And, we were in a hurry to get up there.
We slept on the trail that evening, about half way up the mountain. The next morning, January 18, we started again. It was a little cool and foggy. At about 10:00, we walked right into an ambush. This one was well laid. The NVA had a small bunker in the side of the mountain where they could watch the trail up which we had been coming. They fired a machine gun out of a little slit in the front and were very well protected. We took one killed and three wounded, and killed one of theirs.
Bullets were flying all over the place, and confusion reigned for the minute or so of action. That's the way ambushes are. There is, obviously, no notice. All of a sudden there is shooting all around you, and everybody is yelling for someone else to do something - gun team up, Corpsman up, mortar team up, etc., etc.
I stripped off my pack in less time that it takes to think about it and hit the ground. Then I waited until someone said he needed help, at which time I got up and start running to the front, hoping I wouldn't get hit.
We had a new Corpsman with us on that ambush. His name was Allen Young and he was from Kerrville, TX. When it was all over, he brought out a plastic baby bottle full of brandy. He offered me some, and it burned going down. It was the first I had ever had, but it warmed me up and relaxed in a way that gave me a great appreciation for the distiller's art. It was also the last brandy that I could say I really ever enjoyed.
Allen was a well-trained and motivated Corpsman. He performed like he had been doing it all his life. He was to distinguish himself as a go-getter, and would be wounded three times - enough to get a free trip home - within a couple of months.
One of our wounded was a 1 Lt. named Robert Caldwell from NC. He was from some town that had a tree in the name - Hickory Something or Ash Something or something like that. Anyway, Lt. Caldwell took a rifle bullet through the shoulder in the ambush. He never complained. I didn't even know about it until a good deal later, after he had been helping carry the dead and wounded up that trail on his wounded shoulder. I had a lot of respect for Lt. Caldwell after that. He was tough and an excellent officer.
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