Booby Trap Ville – 1969

Have you ever had a “close call” and cheated death? This is one soldier’s story during the Vietnam War. He should have died on this mission, but a booby trap malfunction saved his life. Now, the event continues to haunt him in his dreams. Read what happened.

The name “Boobytrap Ville” sounded like the title of a B movie or, even worse, an army training film. It wasn’t either one. It was a real place and had earned its name purely by reputation (plus, its Vietnamese name was hard to pronounce.) In 1969, it’s what we called the village just outside the perimeter of FSB Sandy. Many a life and limb had been lost there whenever any army unit passed by or tried to pass through the village. All previous attempts to clear or secure the area had failed, including the latest attempt we all heard about when a platoon leader and his radio operator were blown to bits while on patrol outside the village and before they could take their first step toward its interior. The very dangerous condition of Boobytrap Ville was a significant problem because of its close proximity to the 101st Airborne Artillery installation (FSB Sandy.)

To make things worse, there must have been some good political or social reason not to just level the small town with an air strike of a few dozen 500lb. bombs or something equivalent. After all, it was known to be a virtual beehive of VietCong activity. Ok, “ours was not to reason why…,” but the fact remained that the village was extremely dangerous, and something had to be done about that. However, it was to be done, and civilian houses, livestock, and other private properties were to be left intact.

As fate would have it, company A/1/501 (101st Airborne) was called upon to secure the village. Making certain areas safe, secure, and free from Vietcong activity had always been our job. That part was nothing new. However, this particular “sweep” would be much more dangerous than usual because of all the boobytraps. Not one of us was looking forward to it. On the contrary… the place was a real nightmare, even in broad daylight.

The task of finding and disarming all the boobytraps one by one was not only way too dangerous but also would have taken about a year and probably caused several U.S. casualties. The village was known to have boobytraps by the hundreds in every direction. When we were first told about having “volunteered” to clear Boobytrap Ville, and before I had seen the place, I envisioned something similar to the file footage I’d seen on the evening TV. News back in the world.

That footage used to scare the shit out of me. (…the one where the large log with sharp wooden spikes sticking out from it swings down out of the tree tops with “…enough force and size to wipe out a whole squad of men.”) You could watch it coming at you for a second or two, but you couldn’t get out of the way. The ground was not low enough, and diving to either side was diving into a sea of pungi sticks. To me, having a few seconds to think before you die, and with no possible escape route, had to be the most miserable ending I could think of. A plane crash would be just as bad, but you could always hope the pilot would straighten things out… right up to the last second. At the very least, you might have time to say a prayer.

The operation to clear Boobytrap Ville was a big deal. As we prepared to enter the village and go to work, a couple of News crews from the States appeared with cameras rolling. Our CO at the time was one of those who rarely even made it out to the field, but he was there when the cameras started. Part of me was thinking that the REMF bastard had volunteered us for something impossible (again) to get a silver star or something for himself. Fortunately, another part of me was taking a strong stance at being whatever part of the third platoon I was supposed to be. We were all a little more scared than normal. There were a thousand crude ways to die in this village. Also, there was something terribly unfair about the boobytraps in general. Your assailant might be miles away. He might even be dead already.

Excuse our dust
We warned the village people that A 1/501 was coming in and that we would pretty much destroy every suspicious thing we discovered. There was supposed to be no one home when we came knockin’. If we encountered any humans, our first assumption would be that they were the enemy. That was the deal.

Even though our company commander was a glory seeker, we were fortunate to have an intelligent platoon leader. I had pictured us getting blown away one at a time until some honcho realized how futile the whole thing was and finally called it off. Our platoon leader had a much better plan (thank goodness.) He got on the horn (radio) and ordered all the Bangalore torpedoes in the battalion inventory to be choppered out to our location at the entrance to the village “… before we take one more step!”

[ A Bangalore Torpedo is basically a ten-foot metal tube about three inches in diameter that are filled with a solid explosive material (TNT). They’re made to be linked or screwed together so that you can easily assemble a 25 or even a 50-yard pole of dynamite and shove it out in front of you. When the assembled shaft of explosives is detonated remotely via blasting cap and det cord (detonation), bingo, you have a fairly safe path to walk. You just do it again at the end of that short, safe path. ]

The Bangalores would be perfect for getting through the thick underbrush in the broad area that skirted the village. That’s where most of the booby traps were thought to be. They (the Bangalores) did a good job at not only clearing a clean path about 5 feet wide but also exposing countless hidden booby traps of every sort which were attached to bushes and trees. Some were detonated by the blast, some were not. After each explosion of a Bangalore assembly, we could clearly see where and how we would have died if not for the use of the “torpedoes.”

There were hundreds of pungi sticks protruding up out of the dirt. They had been hidden under the thick brush, but once all the vegetation had been blown away, we could see that there was a method to the placement of the deadly little (8 or 10-inch) bamboo spikes. Always in groups, they each pointed outward from, seemingly, one central point. If you followed them backward to see where the point was that they radiated from, you might find an entrance to a one or two-man underground bunker or “spider-hole.” The placement of the pungi sticks was crude and ingenious. The VC defending that spider hole didn’t even have to be a good shot. If he could just lob a grenade or fire close enough to make a man “hit the dirt,” that man would be impaled on at least one or two of the very pointed and dried-out bamboo steaks, which, by the way, were known to have been treated with some kind of poison. (Pig manure was commonly used for that poison because it would cause terrible infections.) I noticed, too, that sometimes there was not a “prize” bunker to be found near every grouping of pungi sticks. In those cases, the pungi-sticks were there to augment the threat of a certain boobytrap. If whatever explosive and shrapnel didn’t kill the person who triggered the trap, there was still a good chance that he and others would be maimed or killed when they hit the ground by reflex and impaled themselves on the pungi-sticks that had been stuck in the dirt surrounding the explosive device.

Some of the boobytraps weren’t meant to explode. I found something like a potato chip that could be buried to its rim in the dirt with steel spikes anchored to a flat piece of wood at the bottom. The top ends of the spikes were sharpened and had jagged barbs on them. Before the Bangalores blew it off, there had been some kind of camouflaged cover on the can. I could see that it was meant to be stepped on and that since the tips of the spikes were about halfway down in the can, your foot could pick up a little speed due to gravity before the spikes pierced your boot and foot. That trap probably wouldn’t kill you, but it would take you out of the war for a long time.

It got to be interesting after a while, finding unoccupied VC bunkers and having one of our smallest tunnel-rat-type guys crawl in and check for weapons and other trophies. We always looked for the next one once we knew what to look for. It could be the trap door entrance to a spider-hole if you saw what looked like a buried picture frame on the ground somewhere behind a group of pungi sticks. There would probably be a handle made of wire just beneath the dirt used to camouflage the square wood frame. Knowing this information would later, very nearly cost me my life. Meanwhile, we found a few weapons and many useless trinkets in several spider-holes to include: one each type, a nice white ladies bra. Go figure.

Of course, we stayed on the blown-up paths we had created with the Bangalores and other secured areas that had been checked by mine sweepers. However, we slowly eliminated all the boobytraps and generally cleared the whole village of anything useful to the VC, either offensive or defensive.

Don’t go there!

On about the third day of the operation, I was in place on a defensive perimeter that we’d set up for an incoming re-supply chopper. That meant little, except that getting my share of mail and rations would be … later. A short while after the chopper departed, we dissolved the hasty perimeter we’d set up, and I wandered over to where the mail was. I had a letter waiting for me from my wife, so I plopped down to read it a few times. I’d chosen a spot to sit where another guy was already reading his mail. That way, I’d hoped to borrow some of his “Do not disturb” atmosphere so I could read in peace. When we’d both finished our letters, he reminded me that we’d better go and get our food because if we waited any longer, we’d be stuck with the shitty(est) meals. He knew where the boxes of C-rations were, so I followed him up the slight rise out of the village and towards the flat sandy area where the chopper had landed and off-loaded our mail and supplies. I remember asking him if the sandy path we were using had been cleared, and I took his word for it, “Yeah, …it’s clear.”

We had walked no more than twenty yards or so when, to our delight, we ran upon what appeared to be a wooden frame half buried in the sand. It even had a bit of the wire handle exposed. We knew no one else had spotted it yet and quickly went into action, trying to gain entrance to the spider-hole below. He pulled the frame off of the hole using its wire handle. The frame was filled with just sand (in this instance), which was held in the frame by a woven bamboo mat. The whole thing was about a foot-and-a-half wide rectangular wooden structure. Most of them were usually beveled so that they wouldn’t fall in the hole they were meant to hide. This one didn’t seem to have that bevel. In fact, it looked poorly constructed compared to the others I’d seen. I noticed that one end of the wire handle of the lid looked shiny and new, though, which I took somehow to be a plus. However, the hole beneath the framed lid was mostly sand-filled. We were both there on our hands and knees, digging under where the frame had been and around it, looking for a way to get in. About five seconds later, the thought occurred to me that maybe the lid had been tossed there from the hole …which must be close by… and perhaps occupied… and a gook might be aiming his weapon at me right now. Before that thought was even complete, I started scanning the ground around me…weapon in hand. A small bush right next to my right leg held the only evidence of anything abnormal. A piece of dark gray plastic (as in an old garbage bag) had apparently been caught by the bush when the wind had blown it across the flat sandy plain. Perhaps it had even been blown from the re-supply chopper. Just because it was the only odd bit of interest, I lifted up part of it that was flapping loose. It was stuck, not just in the bush, but in the sand as well. In fact, there was a lot of it, and now I was sure something was wrapped up inside it that was meant to be hidden. I tugged at it and tore it open until I could see something inside.

To my utter shock, I was staring into the fuse assembly of the most deadly boobytraps I’d seen. It was made from a large U.S. (155) artillery round. Upon detonation, it would have easily disintegrated anyone within 15 or 20 yards and critically wounded those beyond. At the moment, it was no more than 10 inches from the tip of my nose. The (newish looking) wire “handle” of the wood frame had just been pulled out of the fuse when my partner hoisted the frame from the depression on the path. It wasn’t really a handle at all. By design, pulling that wire was supposed to detonate the boobytrap.

The framed mat and wire part of the boobytrap were meant to have been stepped on. That’s why it was on the path and why there was a small football-sized hole in the sand beneath it. Stepping on the mat and pushing it into the hole was supposed to yank the shiny end of the wire woven into the mat right out of the fuse on that artillery round. That’s all it took to trigger the explosion, and that wire had just been pulled. We hadn’t stepped on the triggering device, but just the same, we had yanked the wire loose when we were inspecting the frame and mat just seconds ago.

I’m sure we reported that boobytrap and its location to the proper authorities just before I went back to the perimeter and got sick. A cold sweat came over me, and I just sat there dazed beyond belief that I was still alive. The thing just didn’t go off. I couldn’t believe it. I had made a dumb mistake and was just sitting there, completely alive, wishing I hadn’t been so fatally stupid. It was a terrible “plus and minus” feeling, and even when I thought I’d shaken it off, it went no further than the back of my mind. The nightmares would last for years to come.

I didn’t even get angry with the guy who’d said the area had been cleared. It’s challenging to shout and swear when all the muscles in your throat are tied in a knot. Also, it’s difficult to muster or express rage on your knees. I had just made a deadly mistake, and yet, for some reason, the great judge in the sky found a reason to suspend my death sentence. That incident and others like it made me think that perhaps there was some purpose for me. The event did not add anything to the false sense of invincibility I carried around by default. I had no new feeling of divine protection. To be sure, I was as thankful as can be that such a critical moment had passed, and I was still breathing, but from then on, caution became an even bigger priority. It was nice to think that maybe God didn’t want me dead yet, but then there was the reality that 5 minutes later, I was still a fair target for the NVA or the Vietcong. I preferred to think of the experience as possibly my last and most final warning. Anyway, after that, I felt that if I ever got in a position where I needed to ask God for a second chance… he’d probably just laugh and say, “Remember that 155 round?” Yes lord… I remember.

As far as memories go, I have to admit that there are some memories of Vietnam that I can summon up, which are pleasant enough to drift me off into sleep land. That particular memory, though, always made me jump out of whatever relaxed state of mind I could achieve. For years after Vietnam, the thought of that 155-round boobytrap and actually remembering what its fuse looked like would cause physical tremors. At the same time, mentally, I could picture myself being sprayed across the sand like a blown-up can of red paint. Today, I can say, “Man, that was close!” However, they don’t quite describe the true nature of what happened. I can’t think of just one other time when a booby trap in Vietnam didn’t go off when it was supposed to. There’s just no such thing.

Other major mind-quaking events happened in that village. My life being spared is the first one that comes to mind. On the very first day of the operation, while we were waiting for the Bangalores, a good friend of mine who came out to the field on the same day that I did was hit in the leg by a piece of shrapnel from a boobytrap. That was before we had even entered the village.

Another thing that bothered me at the time was watching our Vietnamese scout slapping a little kid who we found wandering around at the edge of the village. He was yelling at the kid in Vietnamese, so I had no idea what the anger was all about. I had the utmost respect for our scout, but I felt like he was talking tougher to this little kid than he did to most any other of the adult VC prisoners we’d taken. I was about to stick my nose in and find out what they were talking about when the yelling stopped, and the little kid went (crying) into the very thick hedgerow at the edge of the village and pulled out a couple of hand grenades and an old SKS rifle with a few bullets. He had been working for the VC as a lookout.

He’d have probably worked for our side on another day. Kids like him found ways to make a good living by doing favors for (probably) both sides. They knew how to smile and con you into buying a hot can of stolen coke for a dollar or more, depending on how thirsty you looked. They always knew where to find cigarettes and other luxury supplies and would go to the nearest village and get them for you… for a nominal service charge. The kid with the weapons was taken prisoner. He was probably only about 11 years old.

A couple of days after the start of the operation, we encountered a very old man in the village. Again, I couldn’t understand the questions our scout asked the old guy, but he was not allowed to go free. His reasons for staying in the village after everyone had been warned to leave must have held at least a little suspicion. We detained and lightly restrained the old man and sat him in the shade where he could wait for someone “official” from the rear who would come out and question him further.

The “interrogator” arrived by chopper (l.o.h.) an hour later. He was from MACV, according to the patch on his shoulder, and looked so white and pudgy and pasty-faced that I figured it was the first time he’d ever been out of his air-conditioned office. He had a Vietnamese assistant/interpreter, although I soon heard he spoke a little Vietnamese himself. I witnessed his interrogation method for a minute, but it was cruel. The interrogator had an ammo can full of what looked like very soapy water and a blue washcloth. The old man was held down flat on his back on the ground, and each time the interrogator would ask him a question, the man would just seem to grunt or moan. Then the interrogator would drench the washcloth in the soapy solution and cover the old man’s mouth and nose, forcing him to inhale pure soap suds… or whatever else was in that solution. I don’t think they learned anything from the old man. In fact, I believe that after they gave up on the interrogation, the man died. It may have been a day or two later, but it wasn’t because of old age.

Epilogue:

Even today I still wonder why that place had more boobytraps than any other area or village in the I Corps. I have a guess, but it’s only based on things I’ve learned over the years since the war. From all I have heard about the massive underground tunnel systems the VC and NVA had in place, I could easily conclude that Boobytrap Ville must have been covering for some kind of underground hub, supply depot, or even a hospital complex. The bunkers we had found seemed to be in a pretty tight circle around the village, yet there was not that much (visible, at least) to protect. Before we cleared the place, there was no direction you could enter the village without risk of being blown to bits. If the bunkers had an armed man in them, no direction was left uncovered. Obviously, they were serious about protecting this place, but for why? None of us found any tunnels, but at the time, we didn’t know how to look for something beyond the inside of the bunkers and spider holes. I’ve seen a film showing that many of these spider-holes had a hidden entrance to an extensive tunnel system. I think that the village we called Booby Trap Ville might have been a VC version of the grand central station. Ya think?

We found many bunkers and boobytraps in that village and completely destroyed each one. After about a week, the place was safe to walk through for the first time anyone could remember. The 101st Airborne Division commander handed out a few medals in an impact awards ceremony a few days after the operation was completed.

Mark Orr
3rd Platoon
A/1/501

This story was obtained from http://www.lzsally.com

*****

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