Sergeant Quick I ‘am Not

India Company had suffered severely, yet endured on that hill, 362 on 24 July 1966. It was the stuff Marine Corps legend was made of “the Company was ambushed, mortars rained in relentlessly, and an estimated battalion from the North Vietnamese Army’s 324th B Division probed our fractured perimeter. Yet, India Company held on to Hill 362.

There was no dusk, or as I learned to call it, EENT (End of Evening Nautical Twilight). The rugged hills and the jungle canopy mad daytime almost instantly melt into night. I had taken cover behind a log just outside of the Command Post. It wasn’t much of a CP, just a big hole in the ground covered with two shelter-halves. Inside were the Company Commander, Captain Glaize, First Sergeant Chapman and my boss, Sergeant Stan Zaidinski. Stan called me into the hole.

Captain Glaize told me that what I was going to do was very important. Then, the Top told me that I was not to tell any of the other Marines what I was up to. I think that he and the CO thought someone would try to stop me.

Then, Glaize got very serious. He told me that a helicopter was coming in. It was my job to guide it in. The chopper was to pinpoint our position and was going to drop something very important. I was to recover the “drop” and bring it back to the CP.

Okay. I can do that. The only problem was that I had never brought in a chopper before, let alone at night. I had been training to do it and had observed Sergeant Ski does it many times, but I had zero, zilch, and nada experience. But when the First Shirt and the CO tell a private to do something, he does it. Hell, I didn’t even think twice about it.

I grabbed an M-14 and two flashlights and started working my way to the top of the hill. There was a pile of tree trunks at the top which had been knocked down by all the mortar fire. I figured this was as close to the top as I was going to get, so I settled down and found cover at the base of the logs.

I waited and waited. There was the occasional shout of “INCOMING”, and I buried myself under the fallen trees. The rounds would fall either harmlessly, amongst the dead or, sadly, into the area where our wounded were gathered for treatment. We were being probed by the NVA who shouted things like, “Marine! You die!” which only helped our guys figure out where they were and pick them off.

Then, I heard it. The old CH-34 was a piston-engine aircraft. It made a sound like a Chrysler Hemi with straight-pipes, just as distinguishable as the Huey became to be known. I knew it was coming.

I climbed to what I thought was the top of the hill, over the dirt and on top of the logs. I listened, and I waited. The noise grew louder, first a hum, then a sound like that of an approaching thunderstorm.

No aircraft lights were with the aircraft noise. I raised both flashlights over my head, pushed them out as far as I could in front of my body and turned them on. Top Chapman was right “some guys wanted my ass right there and then. “What the fuck is that asshole doing?”

“You stupid son of a bitch! What the fuck are you doin’?”

“Are you fuckin’ nuts?”

A couple of Marines turned around and started to shuffle toward me. Then, I heard someone yell, “Hey! Leave him alone. He’s bringin’ in a chopper.”

I held those flashlights as high over my head as I could. Once I brought the lights in over the top of my head, I turned them off. Then, I would reach out again, turn on the lights and repeat bring them in. After about six or seven repetitions, the chopper was right overhead.

Most of my job was done. I got to the top of the hill, didn’t tell anyone what I was doing, and, so far, hadn’t been shot by one of my fellow Marines. The next step was to collect the “drop”. Hell! I didn’t know what it was going to be, but I knew I had better not go back without it.

It wasn’t much different from that which had happened all day. A bunch of small arms fire and a machine gun opened up. The chopper veered off to its left and took off in the same direction in which it had approached. It started to rain. But, it wasn’t rain. It was gasoline. The Gooks opened up and put a few rounds in the fuel tank, and we Marines were being sprayed with gas. Great! And, I still had not recovered the “drop”.

There wasn’t much left for me to do, except head on back down to the CP. When I got there, First Sergeant Chapman was already opening the contents of the “drop”. It was a stinkin’, lousy ammo can. 1st Platoon recovered it and ruined me going four for four on my assignment. Chapman opened it and handed the contents to Captain Glaize. There were some papers “I guess they were orders “and a bunch of maps.

Sergeant Ski told me to join one of the platoons. At first, I took up a space in an eight-man hole with the 2nd Platoon until I gave it up for a wounded Marine. Then, I took up a position between the 2nd and 1st Platoons, dug a hole with my canteen cup and really pissed off the guys in the 1st Platoon by throwing an M-26 fragmentation grenade downhill and having it bounce back toward their lines.

I don’t think Sergeant Quick got his fellow Marines as mad at him as I did mine that night. At least, they knew what the hell he was doing out there. But, Sergeant Quick didn’t serve with India Company. Very few people have had that honor.

Oh. Who was Sergeant Quick? I guess someone who was just as dumb as I was.

Author/Jerry Czarnowski