Written by Rocky Saxbe

I joined the Marine Corps in December 1967 after foolishly giving my supposed girlfriend an ultimatum to choose between the boy she’d been dating since high school and me. She chose him, and the next day when I walked into the SMU Student Center, the Marine recruiters had me. It could have been the French Foreign Legion, and I would have signed up.

Officer Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia, in the summer of 1968 was a real eye-opener as it challenged me physically and mentally. I was scared I wouldn’t survive the ten weeks of intense training that washed out many others. Somehow I made it, and after finishing my senior year at SMU, I reported for duty in August 1969.

A year later, I was in Okinawa with a great job as an air observer flying in helicopters and small planes in Okinawa, Japan, and the Philippines. Nobody was shooting at me, but I kept requesting orders to Vietnam. Then they came through.

In February 1971, I became a platoon commander with India Company, 3rd Battalion, 1st Regiment, 1st Marine Division; the platoon consisted of 25 Marines. My first night there leading the platoon to a safe position in the thick jungle was awful. I was too cautious, moved the troops slower than I should have, and didn’t pay enough attention to time, causing us to reach our goal well after dark. Once I established the night watch assignments, I laid down on the hard ground, pulled a thin poncho liner over my head, and wept silently. What had I done? Why had I brought myself to this point where I was going to get myself and others killed? It was a miserable and lonely moment.

The next morning there was no mention of my performance, and thankfully after time, my debut was forgotten, and I forged a close and trusting relationship with my men.

For some veterans, talking about their experiences can be difficult. The physical and mental trauma associated with war’s terrible reality lasts a lifetime for many, and the pain of reflection can be torturous. My moments under fire were brief compared to the men who survived terrible battles in places like Hue City, Ir Drang Valley, and Con Thien. But I’m proud of my service in the Corps, and if anybody asks, I’ll tell them about it. The truth is, other than my grandsons, few ever ask.

Now, Suzy has requested a story for her book. And while most of my days there were hot, uneventful, and downright boring, here’s one day that was hot but not boring.

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The Hai Van Pass is the high mountain passage between Danang and Hue in the northern part of what was then South Vietnam. Highway 1, known as “The Street Without Joy,” traversed the pass and carried all the commercial, civilian, and military traffic on a steep, winding two-lane road. It was a favorite site of Viet Cong saboteurs who could easily sneak through the jungle and ambush the daily convoys moving slowly up or down the Pass. Destroy one vehicle, and the whole road was shut down.

My platoon was providing road security on the Pass’ north side while the South Vietnamese Army was involved in a disastrous losing battle in neighboring Laos. Deployed in three different positions along the descending road, we slept in old French bunkers shared with local Vietnamese troops. They had no stomach for fighting and usually disappeared when guarding the culverts and bridges sprinkled along the road.

It was pretty quiet our first couple of days, allowing us to settle into a routine more comfortable than patrolling the jungle. Daily volleyball games against the Vietnamese helped pass the time until they got too competitive and fights broke out. One day we even got steaks and liquor sent to us from the rear. Our open-air latrine, “the shitter,” sat prominently above the road, providing plenty of amusement for its user, as well as the passing traffic. All in all, the living was easy.

As the mountain descended to the coast several miles away, we could see out to the azure blue South China Sea. Well below the road ran a one-track small gauge railroad that served Danang in the south and Phu Bai to our north. It traveled along the coast and through thick jungle with a history of ambushes and violence.

On the morning of March 30, 1971, I caught a ride on an Army truck to check on my two higher squads. As soon as I arrived at the top position, a terrific explosion erupted from the railway below. Small arms fire chattered, and smoke began to curl above the treetops. I radioed and alerted my other Marines, called the Company Commander, and then stepped into the middle of the highway to stop the traffic heading down the Pass.

A lone Vietnamese man came down the road on a small Honda motorbike and screeched to a halt when I brandished my .45 pistol. To his shock and dismay, I hopped on the back of his scooter and ordered him to take me down to the sound of the guns. Under Sergeant Danny Stewart’s command, I knew my Marines below would be preparing for whatever might be coming.

I was told over the company radio to expect an assault on our position and provide a radioman to communicate with a Marine medevac helicopter already on its way. A command-detonated mine had blown the train off the tracks causing numerous casualties among the crew and passengers, primarily Vietnamese troops.

A Jeep picked up our radioman as we deployed to defensive positions, firing on every real or imagined movement below us. Soon the helicopter approached and began its descent near the demolished train. Then suddenly, the big chopper exploded in a giant fireball, made a 180-degree flip, and disappeared down into the trees, consumed in a boiling navgas fueled black cloud.

Horrified by what we were witnessing, we had to get to the site, defend against any continuing attacks, and rescue survivors. Assembling six men, including Sergeant Stewart, I waved down a well-armed Army truck, and we struck out with no idea what awaited us.

Arriving on the road above the wreckage, we scrambled 200+ feet down a steep embankment where the derailed train and the burning helicopter lay on the railroad tracks. Dead and wounded Vietnamese and Americans lay about the scene. All the Marine airmen survived the crash except the crew chief, still pinned in the burning chopper. While attempting to land on the train track, his head was out the door guiding the descent. When a second hidden mine exploded, lifting the chopper upside down, it crashed into the ground, practically decapitating him. Fragments from the exploding helicopter also hit the radioman we sent, and he lay in the grass nearby, gravely injured.

Already, another medevac helicopter was on its way. Additional air support appeared including an OV10 reconnaissance airplane accompanied by two Marine A4 jets loaded with bombs and napalm.

Directing them to targets where we suspected the enemy was, we watched the jets come screaming over the high ridge to our rear, swoop low over us, and circle back for their actual bomb run. I’d seen low-level bombing before but only from a distance, never up close and personal like this. Hunkered down in the railway ditch, we watched the jets bank behind us and start their bombing run.

I gasped as both planes released their bombs…behind us! Expecting to be blown to smithereens, we all burrowed further into the ground as four 250 lb “snake eyes” floated over our heads, precisely hitting their targets. It seemed to be happening in slow motion, the explosions raining debris all over us. On their next pass, napalm (jellied gasoline) turned the jungle into an inferno. If anyone survived the first attack, they were now, undoubtedly, burned to ash, or in Marinespeak, “crispy critters.”

The situation was soon stabilized, allowing us to recover the crew chief’s mangled body and pull the radios and live ammunition out of the burning helicopter. Although we had yet to see any enemy and the incoming fire had stopped, we continued to shoot up the underbrush to be sure. Finally, we assembled the dead and wounded, loaded them on the next medevac helicopter, and were soon relieved by friendly Vietnamese reinforcements. Hot, dirty, and thirsty, my small team climbed up the steep slope, caught another ride from the army, returning unscathed to our bunker to absorb surviving another day in the Nam.

Today, the top of the Hai Van Pass is a tourist attraction, providing a scenic view of the mountains, coast, and the cities to the north and south. Friends who recently visited and enjoyed a more hospitable Vietnam report that you can still see some old bunkers along the road. Highway 1 no longer requires American Marines to keep it open, and the railroad still operates. I suspect a train hasn’t been blown off the tracks for some time. In 2005, a tunnel was constructed under the Pass to speed traffic along as the violent history of the Hai Van Pass dims and will soon be forgotten.