Mos 0331—Machine Gunner
Mick Fritz, PFC USMC, Kilo Co,
2nd Platoon, 3/26 Marines, 1969
I met Mick Fritz at the reunion for Kilo Company, 3/26 Marines, in Ennis, Montana, in June 2014. I’ve had the honor of being invited to subsequent reunions in June 2015 on an Alaska cruise, in June 2016 at MCB Quantico, Virginia, and 2017 in Atlanta, where we have become better acquainted. At Quantico I asked Mick if he would be willing to write a story about his experience as a Marine Infantryman in Vietnam and he agreed. But before I start, here is the translation of the title of his chapter. Mick was a machine gunner, MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) 0331, while most of the Marine grunts were MOS 0311—rifleman.
My friends Peter Foor and Nick Kosturos, whose stories are Chapters 36 and 37 in the first volume of this series, made the introductions necessary for me to get to know these Kilo Company Marines, and what I’ve heard being around them at their reunions is nothing short of being “live at the History Channel.” What they experienced in ground combat in Vietnam and the stories they told in my presence are as vivid in their memories today as if they had just happened. It struck me that most of the stories involved air- power at some point or another, and what a great perspective it would be to hear a story like this from a Marine who was on the ground. To paraphrase something I read recently: “War is always about the infantryman with a rifle. All else is support.” And in Denny Dolan’s words from his chapter, The Spirit of Semper Fidelis, in Volume 2 of this series: “The Marine rifleman is the essence of the Marine Corps.”
When they needed illumination at night, flares dropped from the sky. When they needed close air support, along came Marine F-4s and A-4s, dropping bombs, napalm, and firing their rockets and cannons into enemy positions. Additional close air support came from helicopters; the Huey gunships and the Cobras, which by all accounts scared the crap out of the VC and NVA. An AC-47 gunship, “Puff the Magic Dragon,” appeared one night when they were pinned down in an ambush and a stream of red tracers hit enemy positions. Hot shell casings rained down on the Marines from the sky. When they needed to evacuate the dead and wounded, in came the Marine CH-46 helicopters, escorted by Marine Huey and Cobra gunships. Several of these Marines were wounded in battle and were med-evaced by H-34s and CH-46s to the hospital ship USS Sanctuary for life-saving care. When they needed more ammunition, food and water, or other supplies, it came by helicopter. When they were to go on an operation in “the bush” they were often flown in by helicopter, when they needed replacements they came in by helicopter, and when the high ranking officers and staff arrived after an operation to inspect the area, in their starched fatigues and often accompanied by the press, they came by helicopter. As Mick says in his story, “the sound of helicopter blades was always a comfort. It meant food, water, mail, reinforcements, and the fact that we were not alone in the jungle.”
There was always a ground FAC (forward air controller) attached to the Marine units on larger operations or an airborne FAC flying an O-1 or OV-10 overhead, and the coordination between the Marine grunts and their air support was nothing short of miraculous. To a 19 year old Marine PFC, MOS 0331—machine gunner—or MOS 0311—rifleman—how it worked didn’t matter. He just knew they would always get the help they needed and it most often came from the air.
In this series of three volumes, pilots of nearly every type of aircraft that supported the Marines are represented. (The one Air Force AC-47 gunship pilot who flew “Puff”, John Theorell, unfortunately passed away before he could complete his story.) There is no doubt that all of the pilots who flew in Vietnam were there for one reason and that was to support the infantry or the grunts on the ground. Whether it was close air support, interdiction along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, more strategic bombing by B-52s and smaller fighter/bombers, cargo delivery to remote Army and Marine bases, search and rescue, or helicopter gunships and troop carrying missions, we were all there to support the guys on the ground, and every one of these missions is represented in these volumes.
Mick has told a fascinating story which includes a segment he calls My Last Letter Home that tells of a letter he wrote home the night before an operation in April 1969 when he was sure he would be killed. I will introduce Mick by quoting from the biography he sent. You will meet a 19 year old farm boy from southern Indiana who dropped out of college in his first year and gave up his draft deferment to join the Marine Corps. His story will begin when he arrived at Da Nang, separated from anyone he had known in training and was awaiting transportation out to “the bush” to join Kilo Company, which had just embarked on Operation Oklahoma Hills, as a replacement 0331. Let me introduce Mick Fritz.
Michael “Mick” Fritz grew up on a farm outside the small community of Mackey in southern Indiana, with a population of about 300. In high school he played all the sports and was president of his senior class of 30 when he graduated in 1967 at age 17. Accepted at the University of Evansville he was given a student deferment from the draft and started out studying computer technology. He switched his major to history in his third quarter, mainly due to his interest in the wars of the world and his family’s incredible history of service.
Mick’s great uncle Alvin lived with the family when Mick was growing up. He had served in World War I as an ambulance driver and had seen such horrors in France that, according to family members, he said he would never bring children into the world. He never married and refused to drive a car, suffering in silence and never talking to anyone about his experiences. Mick’s Dad and his two brothers joined the Navy in World War II and one of his aunts was a WASP (Woman’s Army Service Pilot), ferrying military aircraft from the factory to front line units. Mick also had three uncles who entered the service and fought in Korea. Not surprisingly, with the Vietnam War in the news Mick thought it was his turn to serve, so one day he left his dorm room in Evansville, walked downtown to the post office, and went to see the Marine recruiter. He was sent to Louisville to take a physical and a series of tests and then returned to Mackey and the farm to tell his parents what he had done. It didn’t go well with his mother, who wept uncontrollably and demanded his father go to the recruiter and reverse Mick’s decision. It was not the response Mick had expected but he was 18 and didn’t need parental permission.
Mick flew from Louisville to San Diego to attend boot camp at MCRD (Marine Corps Recruit Depot) San Diego. Mick’s biography is very entertaining when he describes the scene as the recruits stepped off the Marine Corps bus from the airport and onto the famous yellow footprints, filed into the barber shop and had all their hair cut off, and then were issued their utility uniforms. Boot camp was a grueling experience with constant “supervision” and harassment from their DIs (Drill Instructors) but one of Mick’s proudest moments was at Edson Range where he qualified for the sharpshooter badge on the firing range. At the end of 12 weeks of boot camp it was on to 8 weeks of ITR (Infantry Training Regiment) which ended with their group being given assignments and Mick being sent to gun school to be a machine gunner. After that Mick returned to Mackey on leave before returning to San Diego and Camp Pendleton to receive his final orders to Vietnam. Those orders were to Kilo Company, 3/26 Marines.
One funny story was his first liberty after arrival at Pendleton and a bus ride to Oceanside with 3 fellow Marines. They went to a tattoo parlor to get a large panther tattoo, with the claws drawing blood, but there was a waiting line of over an hour so they went to get something to eat instead. “Man was that a lucky-break,” said Mick. Then on March 26, 1969, it was over to the Marine Air Station with their sea bags, a last call home, and onto a MAC charter plane for a flight to Okinawa where he would report to the 3rd MAB (Marine Amphibious Brigade) and then go on to Vietnam.
Here is Mick’s story, beginning when he left Okinawa for Vietnam.
DA NANG, I CORPS, MARCH 30, 1969
We took the bus out to the airfield and got on the charter plane in an atmosphere that was like going to a ball game, not going to war. The airline stewardesses were so nice and never made us feel like anything bad was in our future. When we landed at Da Nang Air Base it was dark and there were no major lights on as the plane taxied across the ramp, but as we stepped off the plane, in the distance I could see red tracers going left and green tracers going right and I knew what was happening—for the first time the war had become real. As we filed through a hangar there was a group of Marines who had finished their tours and would be getting on the airplane to head back to Okinawa. They yelled things like: “you’ll be sorry” and “good luck, you’ll need it.” They had survived and we had 13 months ahead of us.
I now felt totally alone, separated from anyone I knew. We stood in line and as I got to the front I was told I would go out to my unit in the morning so find a rack in the barracks and get some sleep. I walked into one of the barracks and everyone was sleeping. It was dark so I just found an empty rack and lay down on a bare mattress. I quickly fell asleep.
MARINE BOOT’S FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH AIR POWER
That first morning I woke up in Vietnam I looked around the barracks and realized: “Holy cow, I am in Vietnam.” I went back to the check-in station to be assigned out to my unit but the corporal just said for me to go over and get some chow. I found the chow hall, which was really just a tent, got some food, and sat down next to a total stranger. About that time a Huey helicopter came screaming over the top of us at what seemed like just a few hundred feet off the ground. I had never seen a chopper fly that fast. I asked the Marine next to me what the hell that was and he just said: “Fly fast or fly high.” My education was starting.
Once I got back to the check-in station I just sat down outside until a Marine drove up in a jeep and asked if anybody was going out to the 26th Marines. I jumped in and we headed off the base into Da Nang City. It was amazing going out into the town and seeing the mass of people and the huge groups of kids. At a stop sign a bunch of kids came running up to the jeep and started talking to me. I could not understand what they were saying and as we started to leave one of them spit on my shirt sleeve. As we pulled away I asked the driver what that was about and he said they asked for candy. I thought: “Are you kidding me? I thought I was here to save them from Communism and they spit on me.” My education continued. Then, as we got out of town the driver told me to put on my steel pot (helmet) as they got sniper fire on the road some of the time. I thought: “OK, now it is getting more serious and less fun.”
My destination was Hill 55. When I arrived and checked in they discovered I was a MOS 0331 so I was immediately taken to the lieutenant who, with delight, put me out on the point of the hill for the night guard.
MY FIRST DAY IN THE BUSH, APRIL 1, 1969
My first day in the bush started at 0600 as I came off guard duty on the perimeter of Hill 55. I had been in-country about 36 hours. When I returned to the check-in tent a Marine told me to get some breakfast and report to the LZ (landing zone) to be lifted out to Kilo Company. One of the Marines in the tent told me to tear a couple of canvas straps off the cots to tie around my legs below the knee to keep the leaches from crawling up my legs. I got the straps tied on and headed for the chow hall. Then I walked to the LZ, reported in, sat down, and waited for the chopper. I had been there about 30 minutes when a tank nearby opened up with a round and scared me almost to death. The tank fired 3 rounds and then the crew came out of the tank—nobody seemed to think anything about it. Then a Corporal named Giles came down to the LZ and yelled my name so I raised my hand. He came over and introduced himself and asked if I was a gunner 0331. I said that I was.
Cpl. Giles told me that Kilo was on an operation where the trails were narrow so when the “shit hits the fan” they will yell “guns up” and you will take the gun and run up to the front of the squad and lay down a base of fire. I thought: “this is bullshit”, how could they ask one person to run under fire to the front of the squad and lay down a base of fire? I was sure he was jerking me around since I was a green boot (just out of boot camp) who had just arrived in-country. Cpl. Giles wished me good luck and said he would catch up with me in the field.
Several CH-46 choppers landed and went back out, but none was for Kilo. I was so tired from not getting any sleep the night before on perimeter watch that I fell asleep, but suddenly jerked awake, thinking I had missed my chopper. Then a Marine came over and asked if I would take the mailbag out to Kilo. Of course I agreed. Finally a CH-46 came in and with his engines still running the crew chief came out and yelled over the noise: “Is anyone going to Kilo?” I raised my hand and he waved me onto the chopper. I had never been on a chopper in my life—I guess we missed that part in training. When I sat down and we took off I realized that everyone else onboard was an officer and after we were airborne all of them took off their rank insignia and put them in their pockets. This gave me some idea that we were not going to a very friendly place.
While in the air I looked down and saw what appeared to be small ponds. I called to the crew chief and asked if those were ponds but he just yelled, “B-52”. I had to process that information and then realized that the ponds were in straight lines and they were craters from a B-52 strike. Then the chopper started descending but the crew chief told me they were just dropping off supplies to another unit. As we got close to the ground I could see a Marine, coming out of the tree line with a gas mask on, and I thought, “Oh shit, we are being gassed,” but he was just keeping the dust from the chopper out of his eyes. Then we were back in the air again and the crew chief came back and told me the next stop was Kilo, but the LZ was “Hot” and they would not stay on the ground long. He told me: “As soon as the ramp comes down, jump out, turn left and run like hell for the tree line.” I kept thinking to myself: “do not screw up and fall down.” I also decided I was not going to look in the direction of the fire but would just focus on the tree line. The chopper hit the ground, the ramp came down, and I was off to the races. The gunners on the chopper provided some cover as I ran for the trees, but the LZ was full of stumps and very rough ground as the chopper lifted off and stirred up the dust. I ran at a full sprint. Then I saw some Marines waiving for me to come in their direction. I soon realized they were mostly interested in the mailbag—they were really happy to see it and as I reached the tree line a Marine took the bag from me and told me to follow the trail down to the Kilo Co. rear area.
I walked down the trail for about 30 seconds and then realized that I was all alone in the jungle. I couldn’t see the Marine I had just left or anybody in front of me either. I thought that a gook could jump out at any time, so I slowed down and tried to look at both sides of the trail until I finally saw a Marine behind a rock and he motioned for me to come forward. I explained that I was reporting in and he directed me to the Staff Sgt. who would assign me to a squad. I walked up to a Marine who was built like a brick shit house and looked like he might kick my ass for just talking to him. I assumed he was the Sgt. and as he asked me a few questions I answered but could see he was getting upset. He suddenly asked me how long I had been in country. I replied two days. He said: “Do you know how to address an officer?” “Oh shit” I thought. I was sure I was talking to a Staff Sergeant, not Captain Barba, Kilo Co. commander. Of course I snapped back with a “Yes sir.”
I was assigned to L/Cpl. James Alford’s gun team and he was digging-in when I got to him. Being a recent graduate of gun school I knew that on paper a gun team had a team leader, gunner, assistant gunner, and two ammo humpers—five Marines. I asked Alford where the rest of the team was and he said, “You are looking at it.” He told me to sit down and eat some C-rats because we would be going out on patrol soon. Within 30 minutes I heard my first AK-47 firing and then AK and M-16 fire echoing through the jungle. Alford never stopped digging. I asked if we should go and help but he replied that if they needed help they would call and he kept on digging. Then a Marine everyone called Gunny (even though I think he was just a Corporal) ran up and told Alford that one of our squads had run into an NVA patrol and to be alert as NVA could be coming through the area. Once I heard that I began scanning the trees and bushes with every bit of concentration I had, but Alford didn’t seem too concerned about the whole affair.
Then Cpl. Walker came by and sat down to discuss how the patrols were run—he told me always to maintain 20 feet between the next Marine and me. This would give the gooks less of a target in case of an ambush or if a land mine was tripped. Most important, once the column stopped, always face outboard as we were in a free fire zone—if it moves shoot it and do not hesitate because you are guarding the backs of your fellow Marines. Then Cpl. Walker looked at me and said: “If I catch you using drugs out here I will kill you myself. I will not allow you to get one of my Marines killed.” Since I had never used drugs this was not a major issue but from his tone and demeanor I knew Cpl. Walker would back up his threat.
In about 30 minutes Gunny came back and told Alford to get his team together as we were going “out on a stroll.” I knew what he meant and was not really ready for this since I knew the gooks were out there. Alford told me to carry the gun. At gun school we learned that the M-60 machine gun had more fire power than an entire squad of Marines so it was important that whoever was using this weapon knew how to use it in a combat situation. I told Alford I had never been in combat and maybe he should take it that day but he just said, “Today is a good day for you to learn, so take the gun.” Then he told me that if the “shit hits the fan” to give him the gun and he would do the shooting—that made me feel a lot better.
We staged near the LZ and the reality of the moment really struck me. I had spent so much time as a kid playing cowboys and Indians and watching all the John Wayne movies and combat shows on TV that I never realized how I might feel in actual combat. It was not as fun as I might have thought.
The squad headed out and they reminded me to keep 20 feet behind the Marine in front of me. This was a very lonely feeling as I was not close to anyone else. We had not walked 500 feet when an AK-47 opened up and to my astonishment Lt. Joyce yelled “guns up” and Alford, who was ahead of me, yelled “let’s go.” Cpl. Giles had not been kidding when he told me they expected the gunner to run up the trail to the front of the squad. Alford and I were running up the trail toward the shooting. All I was thinking was that it seemed to be a sure way of getting killed, when Alford took the gun on the run and we hit the dirt. I snapped the gun ammo to the cheaterbelt and was making sure the gun ammo didn’t jam as Alford went head to head with the gook. As I looked ahead Alford was mowing down the bush with the gun and when he stopped firing the air was full of smoke. Lt. Joyce came over and told me I was not fast enough getting up front with the gun and next time he expected me to get up there quicker. Then Lt. Joyce told McCormick to go forward and check things out. I could not believe how McCormick never seemed to mind the order and disappeared down the trail where the AK fire had come from. He soon reappeared and gave us the arm pump to move out.
As we moved up we saw a dead gook lying on the ground so we stopped across the trail, about 3 feet away, while the squad came by and we waited to get back to our position in the line. I leaned over to Alford and asked what we were going to do with the dead body. The only dead person I had ever seen was in Pemberton Funeral Home in Lynnville, Indiana. Alford, with some disgust, asked me what I meant. I said, “Should we bury him?” Alford said, in so many words, “Are you shitting me?”
We continued on the patrol without any further action and returned to the camp at about 6pm and got ready for the night watch. As I sat, there were no speeches or talk about bravery, just the loud sound of insects as my first night in the bush was getting ready to start. It wouldn’t be long before I would walk past dead bodies along the jungle trails without giving it a second thought.
MY LAST LETTER HOME, APRIL 16, 1969
It was the evening of April 16, 1969, and I had been in Vietnam for just over two weeks. One of the objectives of Operation Oklahoma Hills was to find and destroy the base camp for the NVA’s 141st Regiment. On a patrol that day 1st platoon had discovered a bunker complex that was definitely the main area of the base camp. The bunker complex was huge, totally invisible from above because of the jungle canopy, and was large enough to accommodate several hundred troops. It was fortunate that the NVA were not home as the patrol would have been “dead meat”. When they returned to our rear area the report was made to Capt. Barba and he said we would go back in the morning with 2nd platoon (about 27 Marines) and sweep the camp. I thought a better number would have been to go back with the entire Company but that was classic Marine Corps—give the bad guys the superior numbers so the fight would be even. It seemed that we were always moving around with a light number of Marines on every operation. Going back to the NVA camp was not good news and being a machine gunner I knew if the “shit hit the fan” we would be in it. I learned early on that you could not share doubts or concerns with fellow Marines as we were supposed to be happy to have a chance to go out and kill some more gooks.
After cleaning the gun and getting all my gear ready for tomorrow, it was time to write my letter home. As I started thinking about what I would write it came to me that this could be my last letter home. I had never been one to show emotion to my Mom and Dad and I do not know if I had ever told them I loved them and what they really meant to me. I decided it was time to make sure they knew what my true feelings were. Writing this letter brought out emotions that had never come up before and it took longer than normal to write since I kept stopping and thinking about home. It was dark by the time I finished writing.
We stood two hour watches at night and usually argued over who had to stand the first watch since it was always longer than two hours. This evening it did not matter and we were not talking to each other as we usually did. At night in the triple canopy you could not even see your hand in front of your face so I put my two grenades right next to my K-bar knife so I could find them in the dark. (A PFC was not supposed to have a K-bar but I stole mine from the supply guys when I arrived in country since I thought I needed it more than they did.)
I sat there thinking about what would probably happen tomorrow. I didn’t just think I was going to die, I knew I was going to die. I thought about the fact I would never get to ride my motorcycle in the spring again or smell the corn fields in the summer in southern Indiana. I would never see my parents or friends back home again. As I sat in the dark I said to myself that if I ever got out of this jungle there could never possibly be a worse day than this in the rest of my life.
I was raised in a very religious family and praying was a normal part of my life. It’s very interesting when you know you are going to die how religious you get. I sang How Great Thou Art to myself, and came somewhat to a sense of peace about tomorrow. I started wondering how much pain I would be in before I died and as I pondered the inevitable I started to go through a personal transition. I was thinking about those bastards that were going to take my life away. They would keep me from seeing my family or any of my friends ever again. Then a strange feeling came over me: I thought about how many of them I could kill before they got me. If I had to die I wanted to take as many with me as I could and make them pay dearly. At that moment I became very dark in my thoughts, and my feelings of resignation about tomorrow were filled with hatred for the NVA.
Usually I looked forward to the morning dawn but this morning it only meant it was getting closer to the time I would meet my maker. The usual morning conversations were not taking place and soon it was time to saddle up and head for the NVA base camp. This was the largest staging of Marines that I had been involved with on this operation and was an indication of what could happen. Capt. Barba was joining us with Lt. Joyce, and if the Captain was coming along it only meant one thing. He thought the shit would hit the fan and he was going to be a part of it. I dropped off my last letter home and headed out on the stroll.
On April 17, 1969, 2nd Platoon, Kilo Company, entered the NVA base camp and immediately made contact with NVA troops who retreated to a bunker. In the ensuing fire fight, tragically Lt. Joyce was killed and several of the Marines were wounded, including Mick, whose M-60 machine gun was damaged by a ChiCom (a Chinese Communist-made grenade). His machine gun most likely saved his life as he used it for cover as another ChiCom blew up in front of him. (Shrapnel from that grenade wounded his hand and chipped his school ring, which he sent home and has to this day.) Mick also twisted and injured his knee when he dove away from the ChiCom, an injury that continued to get worse over the next weeks.
L/Cpl. Alford yelled for Mick to toss him his grenades and was able to maneuver behind the bunker. L/Cpl. Noisal, who came in from the other side, and Alford, threw grenades into the bunker, blowing off the roof and killing the NVA. (Both Alford and Noisal received the Bronze Star with combat V for valor for their action.) At this point Capt. Barba ordered Mick to turn his damaged gun outboard in the event of a counterattack by the NVA while they searched the bunker complex. Fortunately a counterattack never came.
Carrying Lt. Joyce’s body, 2nd Platoon returned to the Kilo Co. rear area and plans were made for a return to the NVA base camp to destroy the bunkers and an underground hospital they had discovered.
ON CHARLIE RIDGE, APRIL 21, 1969—THE FOG OF WAR
With Lt. Foor now leading 2nd Platoon we returned to the NVA base camp. It was located on what was called Charlie Ridge and was in an area of very heavy jungle with a triple canopy and a field of vision of about fifty feet. The drone of the insects sounded like an AM radio channel off station in a steady hum. Up ahead I could hear the jets’ nose guns as they came in and the afterburners kick in as they pulled up. It was a wonderful sound as we hoped they had taken care of as many of the NVA as possible so we would not have to deal with them later. I heard a chugging sound in the air that seemed to be moving slowly so I asked Alford what it was and he just said: “the New Jersey.” (The Navy Battleship New Jersey, a few miles off the coast, fired projectiles that weighed as much as a Volkswagen up to 22 miles with pin-point accuracy from her 16 inch guns).
(Lt. Peter Foor, my friend from Berkeley and author of chapter 36 in Vietnam to Western Airlines, told me that the rounds from the New Jersey sounded more like a freight train when they passed by, sometimes overhead, sometimes landing in front or behind the patrols, fortunately never on top of them. As the patrols were always on the move, and the Naval-gunfire was called in by a FAC, map reading was very important and knowing where you were {in the days before GPS} was critical.)
In the early part of the operation we had constant contact with the enemy and I was becoming more and more comfortable working with Alford and our machine gun “team”. We had discovered parts of the base camp but as the operation moved into the last stages the enemy was staying away, so it was decided to set up an ambush position there. Then if the NVA patrols returned to their camp during the night we would ambush them.
No contact was made that night but as we were breaking camp the next morning, I heard the radio man talking to Lt. Foor, speaking very quickly and in a higher tone of voice than normal. Alford told me to get ready to dive into the shitter. (In base camp the NVA just dug holes in the ground and then used them for toilets). Getting below ground was the key to survival in an ambush or an air strike, and the NVA toilets were the only holes available.
Lt. Foor carried pen gun signal flares that were fired from what was called a pen gun because it was about the size of a pen. He spotted a small hole in the canopy and to this day I don’t know how he fired the flare through that hole, but he did, and once it cleared the canopy it burst into a bright green signal. This only took seconds and being a boot PFC I was totally confused. Alford explained that a spotter plane had picked up movement in the area of the enemy base camp and called for an air strike. The movement spotted by the FAC was our platoon and that is why Alford had told me to get ready to jump into the shitter.
About that time a jet came roaring over the jungle. When they came over at low level and high speed it really made a tremendous roar. This one made the jungle vibrate. Lt. Foor acted like it was just another day at the office and told everybody to “saddle up” and get ready to move out. None of the Marines talked about the close call we had, but just moved out on the patrol. As we walked my thoughts flipped back to the University of Evansville mere months ago. I had thought my Comp 101 class was difficult but it didn’t seem so hard anymore. All I could think was that for me this was just one day less in country.
ANOTHER VIEW OF AIRPOWER—LATE MAY 1969:
On April 30 Kilo returned to the LZ and we were airlifted to Hill 55. In May we returned to the USS Valley Forge where Kilo Company continued “on the float” and on standby to be airlifted to any trouble spots. One day in late May the ship’s loudspeaker announced that a jet was going down over the starboard bow. We all ran to the side of the ship and could see the smoke, pouring out of a jet, as it was headed for the water. Then somebody yelled “chutes” and two small parachutes appeared in the air some distance from the plane. The whole ship exploded into cheering. Two choppers left the deck and headed to the pilots but they got there so quickly they had to wait for the pilots to hit the water before they could pick them up. Then over the loudspeaker a voice said: “they are in good shape so we are going to take the chickens back to the chicken house.”
MEDEVAC, JUNE 1969:
In June 1969 my knee finally gave out and I was taken to First Med at Da Nang. The doctors decided that I needed to go to the Navy Hospital on Guam for surgery. I was med-evaced to Guam where I had surgery and spent 3 months in the hospital. Then I was flown to Great Lakes Naval Hospital in Illinois where I would spend another 3 months. When we landed in Chicago at the Naval Air Station we were transported to the hospital by an ambulance bus that used flashing lights and a siren along the way. Along one side-street with small row houses, women came out on the front porches and waved small American flags. It sure felt good to be back in the good ole USA.
L/Cpl. Mick Fritz was medically discharged from the Marine Corps in December 1969. Returning to southern Indiana he learned that in his small community three young men had been killed and eight had been wounded in Vietnam. That small community was harder hit by the Vietnam War than by World War II. Mick went back to college on the GI Bill and earned a degree in Business with a major in Marketing, and embarked on a successful career. He is presently President of ANA LLC which processes granules of oil shale to be blended with ammonium nitrate to be used for explosives in the mining industry. Mick is looking forward to retirement and presently lives in Georgia with his wife Carolyn of 46 years. They have two successful children and five very healthy grandchildren. L/Cpl. James Alford, who Mick credits with saving his life and keeping him out of trouble on several occasions, has never attended a reunion and has basically disappeared. Mick’s attempts to locate him have been unsuccessful.