The Alamo wasn’t really a fort at all. Evidently, there had been an American outpost there at one time, halfway between An Hoa and Phu Loc VI. The entire area was now heavily booby-trapped and the Vietcong liked to mine the road and snipe at the marines. Mac’s squad was assigned to the job of flank security. He and his squad were moving along the sides of the road, one fire team on each side, providing security for the main body of marines sweeping the road for mines. When he heard the explosion, Mac hit the deck hard, a reflex that required no conscious thought. One learned fast in this environment that your life often depended on how fast you could duck. The blast had been on the other side of the road. Mac became aware that he was lying on the ground with his face in the dirt. He felt afraid, then embarrassed that he was hugging the ground. Mac rose to his feet quickly and glanced around to see if his men had sensed his fear. They were all still lying facedown in the mud. He ran across the road and along the rice paddy dike to the downed marine. It was one of the new men, Chris, from Nebraska.
“How you doing, Chris?”
“I think I tripped a frag, Mac. I heard the spoon fly.”
“Don’t worry, man; the choppers are on the way.”
The wounds were not bad. Chris had caught some shrapnel from a Chi Com grenade booby trap in the legs. He would be going to Da Nang and then to a hospital in Japan. A corpsman appeared and began placing battle dressings on the boy’s wounds. A medivac chopper arrived. Mac and three other marines put Chris on a poncho and carried him to the bird.
The patrol moved out. Ten minutes later another explosion shook the ground. The truck following the road sweep hit a mine. The blast was so powerful, it flipped the truck over on its side, killing both marines inside. Pieces of metal, rubber, and dirt rained down. The marines put what they could find of the two men in a poncho and called another medivac.
It was decided that Mac’s platoon would patrol the area around the Alamo and try to make contact with the enemy unit that had planted the mine. The patrol moved out, the column snaking its way through the rice paddies, along the dikes, and past the villages. After ten minutes of patrolling, the point man tripped a booby trap. The bomb had been made from an American artillery round that had not exploded. The Vietcong rigged up the shell to explode when a wire was tripped, using a friction device. The marine who tripped the explosive was blown to pieces. The four marines behind him were all seriously wounded. One kid lost both of his legs at the thigh and, in a state of shock, was trying to get up and walk on the stumps. Another boy lost a leg, an arm, and an eye. He was lying on his back, crying out for his mother.
After the dead and wounded had been flown out, the rest of the marines moved out. Thirty minutes later, another booby trap exploded. There were more dead and wounded. Calls went out for “Corpsman, up!” A medic jumped up and ran in the direction of the wounded. He stepped on a booby trap and was killed instantly. Marines bandaged marines and the helicopters were called. When the birds landed, four marines carrying a wounded boy in a poncho tripped a booby trap and were themselves wounded. A third medivac chopper landed on a mine, wounding the pilot. The carnage continued throughout the day. The marines would move out, get blown up, call in the choppers, and get blown up again. Not one enemy soldier was spotted during this time.
Mac’s squad took point. They hadn’t gone very far when the platoon leader got on the radio.
“Hotel Two Bravo, Hotel Two Bravo, this is Hotel Two, over.”
“Hotel Two, this is Two Bravo, over,” Mac said into the handset.
“Mac, find us a spot to bed down for the night, over.”
“Understand, Two,” Mac said.
A suitable location for a night defensive perimeter was found, and the men started digging in for the night. The next day was more of the same. The area was so heavily booby-trapped, the marines could not move fifty yards without tripping an explosion.
Some of the men reached their breaking point. The marines had volunteered to fight, not get blown up, day after day, with no enemy contact. The morning of the third day near the Alamo, Mac was approached by two of his fellow squad leaders.
“Mac, we’re taking our men out of here.”
“Where you going to go?” Mac responded.
“Back to the fire base.”
“I don’t think that’s the answer,” Mac said.
The rogue marines formed up in a column, the two squad leaders at the head. They began walking toward the perimeter. Sergeant Milner was watching. He walked over to the two leaders.
“Where are you going, corporal?
“The men can’t take any more, sergeant. I’m taking them back to An Hoa.”
The sergeant drew his pistol and chambered a round.
“You’re not going anywhere, marine. If anyone tries to leave this perimeter without orders, I’ll shoot him myself. Now get these people back to their positions.”
The rebel marines hung their heads and went back to their fighting holes.
The platoon patrolled near the Alamo for two more days; then they were flown back to An Hoa for hot chow, showers, and mail. The mutiny was never mentioned again.