Impact Zone: The Battle of the DMZ in Vietnam, 1967-1968

by Jim Brown

Overview

A Vietnam War combat memoir from the perspective of an artilleryman

Impact Zone documents Marine First Lieutenant James S. Brown's intense battle experiences, including those at Khe Sanh and Con Thien, throughout his thirteen months of service on the DMZ during 1967-68. This high-action account also reflects Brown's growing belief that the Vietnam War was mis-fought due to the unproductive political leadership of President Johnson and his administration. Brown's naiveté developed into hardening skepticism and cynicism as he faced the harsh realities of war, though he still managed to retain a sense of honor, pride, and patriotism for his country.

Impact Zone is a distinctive book on the Vietnam War because it is told from the perspective of an artilleryman, and the increasingly dangerous events gain momentum as they progress from one adventure to the next. Impact Zone is not only an important historical document of the Vietnam conflict, but also a moving record of the personal and emotional costs of war.

 

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780817387099
Publisher:	University of Alabama Press
Publication date:	02/09/2013
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	294
Sales rank:	743,465
File size:	3 MB

About the Author

Jim Brown is a Marine Corps veteran of the Vietnam War, for which he was decorated with the Silver Star and the Purple Heart.

Read an Excerpt

IMPACT ZONE

THE BATTLE OF THE DMZ IN VIETNAM, 1967–1968

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By JIM BROWN

The University of Alabama Press

Copyright © 2004 Jim Brown
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8173-1402-6

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Chapter One

Why

The airliner banked to the west as it climbed away from the Memphis airport. Smiling stiffly, a stewardess demonstrated how to use an oxygen mask and blandly went about her performance. Just going through the motions was a way of life to much of America in that May of 1967. As the jetliner began to level off, I mulled over how indifferent people seemed to the world around them and realized that the Marine officer's uniform I wore could have been a business suit for the lack of interest it had generated. True, the airports these days were filled with military personnel, making uniforms a common sight, but I thought there should have been at least some sign of acknowledgment for those of us involved in the Vietnam War effort. That conflict had escalated over the last several years, and now great quantities of men and equipment were being shipped overseas at an increasing rate. Not only that, actual incidents of combat had become daily fare for the news media as film footage depicted just how bloody the fighting could be.

Although polls at the time showed a majority of the public in support of the war, Vietnam had evoked little emotion in the early years. Americans more typically staked out positions on one side of an issue or the other and became outspoken about their feelings. Granted, there had been some emotion in the student demonstrations against the war in Berkeley, Manhattan, and Washington, but most people endorsing the campaign had been reticent with their views. That lack of vigorous support had begun to prick my interest, especially because I had just been on thirty days of leave in my hometown. My return there as a serviceman had hardly been more than a curiosity to anyone, other than family, and had made me recognize that not everyone was as interested in Vietnam as I was. Although most people vaguely supported the war, it was an inconvenience that many wished would just somehow go away. Was this disinterest symptomatic of some fundamental change taking place in the American psyche, or was it perhaps an indication that Vietnam was not as necessary as the leadership in Washington had led us to believe? Questions of that nature seemed much more pertinent because this flight to California was the first leg of the journey that would take me to Vietnam.

With those thoughts beginning to form they nevertheless were secondary to other considerations and feelings. Instead, I focused on what Vietnam would be like and how I would fit in. Fresh out of Marine training and highly motivated as most new officers were, I enthusiastically looked forward to whatever my new duty might hold as long as it involved me in the active war effort. In my mind, it would have been a real letdown to go to Vietnam and end up in some rear area job. As it turned out, that should have been the least of my worries.

I was scheduled for an afternoon arrival at the Marine staging base in Camp Pendleton. My imagination had been running wild as to what the next year might hold, and my thought process was working overtime. Other than speculate about the war, I could only think back on the past to what seemed like a scripted set of circumstances guiding me toward this moment. What was it that had seemingly put me out of step with America's current mood of indifference and was instead driving me with passion toward an experience that would exceed what I had envisioned? Reclining in a seat by the window, I looked out at towering thunderheads and reminisced on how I happened to be here.

Born in Leland, Mississippi, in 1942, I had come into a world at war. Life in those days had been impacted by World War II, and the American people were strongly behind their country's efforts. My earliest memories bring back images of this period and are defined by my father in his Air Corps uniform at a base in Laredo, Texas. The military seemed to be everywhere then, and serving America was the proper thing to do. Although I was too young at the time to comprehend what it all meant, I vividly recall visits to our home by my uncle Charlie in his Army attire and my uncle Harold in his Navy garb. The excitement inspired by their military uniforms was thrilling to a child.

America had been through a major test of character, leaving most citizens proud of their heritage and pleased with the accomplishments of our forces overseas. Of significance, the men and women making those sacrifices were acknowledged as special patriots, and for many years their stories were told and retold. Contributing to that admiration, Hollywood exalted the American soldier with a never-ending sequence of war movies. Watching John Wayne in the Sands of Iwo Jima, most of us understandably took it for granted that this was the way "red-blooded Americans" ought to conduct themselves. Young boys in those years could hardly avoid a respect for the military, and in my case I needed only a war to fulfill my imagination.

My childhood was a pleasant one in which I acquired middle-class values in a relatively sophisticated environment. I grew up in the Mississippi Delta, an area dominated by a plantation economy but one that contained pockets of culture in several communities. My hometown of Leland was one of those spots, and our family lived there in a modest white frame home surrounded by picturesque oak trees. The community itself had a scenic creek meandering through it, and the area could easily have been a model for one of Norman Rockwell's paintings depicting small-town America.

Leland was particularly fortunate for several reasons. First, the federal government had established a major farm research center just outside of town, bringing many well-educated individuals from diverse backgrounds into the community. It was unusual for such a small town to have so many people with doctorate and master's degrees. These individuals made positive intellectual contributions to the social structure, and their presence created a broader mind-set than might have been normal. Second, Greenville, the economic center and cultural mecca of the Delta, was only ten miles away, with a population of forty thousand supporting a progressive and upscale lifestyle. Finally, a nearby Air Force base trained pilots and, with its ever-changing cast of students and staff, added to Leland's unique situation in that a much wider perspective was gained through interaction with people from all over America.

By the time I reached junior high school, I had acquired a passion for football and found myself somewhat awed by the "heroes" of the senior high team. It happened that several of them joined the Marine Corps on graduation. One in particular, Y. C. McNease, made a deep impression on me. After going off to Parris Island, the Marine boot camp, he returned the following year in time for spring football practice. The coaches had persuaded him to work with the ninth-grade players, and he really did a job on us. Filled with Marine Corps motivation, Y. C. pumped us up in a way I had never before experienced. Football seemed like combat to me already, and under his influence I began to associate his concept of the fighting marine with what I thought football was all about. The Marine Corps, in my mind, was becoming something to which I could aspire. That awareness was reinforced during my junior and senior years on the arrival of Perry Jones, a Marine sergeant recently returned from Korea. His hard-charging manner as a coach and history teacher influenced the entire student body, and, through passionate history lectures, he became the talk of the school. My own contacts with him, however, came on the football field, where he enthralled us with stories of the Korean War and virtues of the Marines. Consequently, the Marine Corps became even more special, and their high standards reinforced the patriotic inclinations I already had. By the time I graduated from high school, service to country and loyalty to America were regarded by me as some of the highest principles of life.

Attending college at the University of the South at Sewanee, Tennessee, I tended to associate with people who had strong military leanings, and as it worked, out my two closest friends participated in the Platoon Leaders Course summer program for aspiring Marine officers. Their influence contributed to my admiration for the military services in general and the Marine Corps in particular. The likelihood that I might join up lessened, however, when I became a senior. I had been dating Jody McKnight from my hometown of Leland for several years, and she was wonderful. Jody had been named most beautiful and was the homecoming queen at Leland High. At Sewanee she was chosen Sweetheart of Phi Delta Theta, my fraternity. We married shortly after my graduation, and whatever interest I had in the military went on the back burner as the more pressing issue of making a living became my main focus. By the end of 1965, however, Vietnam was capturing the headlines, and I became overwhelmed with the notion that America was at war again and here I was, not making a contribution. In February of 1966, I signed up for Officer Candidate School (OCS) to begin training on March 21.

There a real test of perseverance began because the program was designed to eliminate those not suited to being officers. Everyone in the program felt a tremendous amount of anxiety because we never knew who would be the next person removed from the class. This intentional stress was the Marine Corps' method of finding out who could take pressure, and the program did what it was supposed to do; nearly half of the candidates had washed out by the time our class graduated on May 27, 1966. Even though I finished in the top 20 percent of my unit, I was always wondering in any given week whether I would be the next to get the boot.

Those of us who successfully completed OCS were commissioned as 2d lieutenants, and Basic School immediately followed. That new training period reversed the objectives of the OCS program, and the Corps now began to build us up and provide the basic skills necessary for infantry officers. At the same time, they instilled in us the motivation that Marines are noted for, not a hard thing to do with Vietnam making daily headlines.

Prior to graduation from Basic School, we were given an opportunity to request a military occupational specialty (MOS). We had no guarantee that we would receive what we applied for, but we were at least allowed to rank our top three choices of the service branch we preferred. Mine were artillery, infantry, and armor, in that order. The big guns had always fascinated me, and because most 2d lieutenants started as forward observers with the infantry, it seemed like a sure way to find out what the war was all about. I did receive my first choice, along with orders to report to the Army artillery base at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for further training. That assignment, however, was delayed for several months so I could remain with Jody, now pregnant and about to deliver. Our daughter, Cathy, finally arrived in December, and two months later, on February 28, 1967, I, along with Jody and Cathy, reported to Fort Sill. The school was a superior learning experience, and on completion I thought I was thoroughly prepared for what I imagined to be ahead. That was a good thing because my next set of orders directed me to duty in Vietnam.

My final days on leave in Leland were quite emotional, and the last good-byes on leaving the Greenville airport were heart wrenching for the entire family as everyone prepared for fourteen months of separation. Parting from loved ones is never easy, but the implications of leaving for war made it even more difficult. Now reclining in the big jet, I raced through the sky toward an uncertain destiny and could feel only apprehension about what lay ahead.

Chapter Two

The Transition

When I arrived at Camp Pendleton, a distinctly different world came into focus that contrasted sharply with what I had left behind. For the last month, I had been among friends and family, and the actuality of parts unknown had taken no form. Camp Pendleton was another story. Here the very fiber of the air rippled with an energy that comes only from frenzied activity, and everything danced in motion with one end in sight, Vietnam. There were refresher classes tailored for the combat tactics of the Viet Cong, and even the survival courses were adapted to the jungles of Vietnam. Lectures on what to do if taken prisoner were presented in such ways as to give us an idea of what we could expect in Asian prison camps, and that formerly abstract thought began to seem much more of a possibility. We also dealt with the more mundane concerns, such as arrangements for family financial support while we were gone. Not the least of those administrative necessities were preparation of wills and instructions to the Corps on who to notify if we were killed or wounded. Almost needless to say, our attention became riveted on whatever waited for us in the days ahead, and the no-longer vague concept of Vietnam began to form a new shape in our minds.

In addition to the administrative details and class time, each of us was assigned a billet, or job assignment, in one of the staging company units. Organized in that structure, we enthusiastically played four weeks of war games across the California hills. With Vietnam staring us in the face, just about everyone wanted to be as sharp as possible for whatever the coming year would bring, and the reality of it all discouraged just about everybody from slacking off in any way on those tactical problems. This simulated combat took up most of our time, and each successful completion of an assigned mission resulted in genuine satisfaction. This climactic setting stirred up a mixture of emotions that might best be described as an elevated feeling of awareness where everything was felt deeply. An acute sense of the love of living began to impact us and became a counterpoint to the new thought of the possibility of dying.

The training and war games continued for the duration of our stay and went without mishap. During this time I had my first real opportunity to have enlisted troops under me, and I developed a great appreciation for the qualities that the Marines Corps had forged in these men. It was refreshing to see just how sharp these enlisted guys were and how dedicated they already were to fulfilling the legacy of being a "Marine." On the other hand, an incident occurred that brought home to me just how young and sensitive most of these men really were. In spite of the tough-guy image so often associated with the Marine Corps, sometimes another side can be seen. It so happened that one afternoon during a survival training class, two instructors walked out in front of the bleachers, with one holding a live cuddly white rabbit. That particular session was to show us how to catch and prepare food if we became separated from our normal supply sources. It must be remembered that many of these men had only recently come from cities and had never thought of meat as anything other than a processed product from a butcher shop. As a practical matter, it was essential that these guys know what to do if they had to kill and clean an animal in a survival situation. One instructor began by pointing to a chart on an easel that depicted various stages of cleaning a rabbit. The other stood by quietly, stroking the live bunny. Gradually it dawned on the group that they were about to see an actual demonstration of the process. Standing off to one side, I could easily see the facial expressions of the men as the class proceeded. Some were visibly shaken as they contemplated the fate of the hapless rabbit, making me realize that "America's finest" were often nothing more than kids at heart. Several eyes glistened, and everyone's attention locked in on the demonstration. In truth, most of our country's fighting force has always consisted of people who are hardly more than teenagers. The common perception of the American soldier usually projects an image of a hard-bitten fighting machine toughened for the job he has to do. Such may be the case after a man returns from war, but most who go into combat for the first time are hardly more than overgrown youths who have been disciplined to take orders and instilled with pride in their particular branch of service.

Continuing to train in this intense curriculum, all of us gained skills that would soon stand us in good stead, but we also had our times away from Camp Pendleton, too. Knowing we were a bout to walk into a world that held only God knew what, we took every opportunity to go on weekend leave, or "liberty." I spent most of my free time with Ross Blanchard, a lieutenant I had been with since Basic School, and occasionally we would visit his home in North Hollywood. Ross's tour had been delayed for his daughter's birth just as mine had, and, consequently, we attended artillery school at the same time. Now we were both assigned to the same staging company because our last names happened to start with a B. After moving together through all of those same rotations, we had become good friends.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from IMPACT ZONE by JIM BROWN Copyright © 2004 by Jim Brown. Excerpted by permission of The University of Alabama Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

List of Maps

Acknowledgments

1 Why

2 The Transition

3 Arrival

4 The Rockpile

5 A Mountaintop Experience

6 The Ambushes

7 Dong Ha

8 Con Thien

9 Fix Bayonets

10 Camp Carroll

11 R&R

12 Tet

13 Ca Lu

14 Khe Sanh

15 LZ Torch

16 The Repose

17 The Final Days

Afterword

Glossary of Military Terms and Acronyms

Index

 

Editorial Reviews

[Impact Zone’s] originality and contribution rests in the fact that it is from the view of an artillery officer. . . . [and it] showed me, a former infantry officer, much about the artillery in that war. . . . It should appeal to all students of Vietnam. It fits that niche very nicely and an audience of those who are interested in military history in general, memoirs, and Vietnam should welcome it.”
—Otto J. Lehrack, author of No Shining Armor: The Marines at War in Vietnam, An Oral History

From the Publisher