A Company Commander’s Letter to the Brother of SGT John Plunkard; A Fallen Trooper At the Battle of the “Lazy W”
Dear Mr. Plunkard,
I had the brief privilege of being SGT John Plunkard’s company commander in Vietnam. Although I commanded B-1-505(Abn) from July 1967 until July 1968, I say brief because your brother joined the company only a little before we deployed to Vietnam in February ‘68 and, of course, was with us only in spirit after 8 April.
A bit of background may be helpful here. As you no doubt recall, the 82d has traditionally maintained one of its three maneuver brigades on immediate readiness status, with one battalion loaded and ready to deploy at once if necessary. A second brigade concentrates on training, while the third performs “post support,” grants liberal leaves and passes, sends troopers to school, etc.
By late 1967, the demands of the Vietnam war had bled the 82d’s personnel strength to the point where each rifle company had only two full-strength rifle platoons. In January of 1968, Third Brigade (1-505, 2-505, 1-508) was on DRF-1 (first to deploy) when the North Koreans seized the US spy ship “Pueblo.” I was called back from Christmas leave to find my company being issued cold-weather gear and eagerly discussing plans to jump into Wonson with a couple of boat drivers along, retake the Pueblo, and sail off into the sunrise. I personally thought it a suicidal plan, and was quite relieved when the notion was abandoned and I could return to my interrupted leave. A few days later, the Tet Offensive erupted in Vietnam, and I was called back again. This time, it was a “go,” and the remainder of the Division was mobilized to bring Third Brigade up to strength. These “fillers” were largely men who had recently returned from a tour in Vietnam, and the rules for selecting them were necessarily harsh: anyone who had been back in CONUS for 30 days or longer and had at least 30 days remaining on his enlistment was considered deployable. I believe that John joined us under those circumstances, if not shortly before.
In the hectic days preceding 1-505’s deployment, I had little time to get to know the new troopers, but I was damned glad to have them, and your brother came to my attention (most favorably) very quickly. I remember him as rather tall (of course, almost everyone seems tall to me), with the look and carriage of a really smart football player … the kind of “lonely end” who gets to where he needs to be to catch the pass almost before the defender notices he’s moved off the line. He seemed quite reserved, issuing his orders without fuss or dramatics, quietly but effectively correcting mistakes, and always concerned for the mission and the welfare of his men. If I had been casting a recruiting commercial, your brother would have had a featured spot: everything about his appearance and behavior bespoke “professional.”
If time has not confused the details for me, our advance party left Bragg for Chu Lai on 14 February, the day after alert, and the whole brigade was in-country by the 28th. From Chu Lai, we conducted a few “shake-down” patrols, then moved North by convoy (driving through numerous small ambushes) along Highway 1 to Phu Bai, a southern suburb of Hue. While HHC established our brigade base camp (Camp Rodriguez, named after a C-1-505 NCO who was the Brigade’s first KIA), the rifle companies began to sweep the suburbs and villages around Hue for the thousands of NVA regulars whom the Cav and the Marines had chased out of the city proper. B Co first provided security for a naval petroleum installation at Coco Beach, where the Perfume River debouches into the South China Sea. After a week of that relatively safe duty, we were assigned a sector closer to Hue, around the village of Phu Vang, South of the river and several kilometers East of the Hue Citadel. Here we found plenty to do, encountering platoon- and company-size NVA units on a daily basis, as well as the customary rocket, mortar, and sniper attacks on our company base at Phu Vang schoolhouse. After several weeks of killing and being killed around Phu Vang (during which your brother was an invaluable leadership asset), we were shifted north of Hue and, after a few days of desultory combat, found ourselves at the Lazy W.
As an aside, you recalled your brother’s last letter, in which he mentions four wounded by 57-mm fire and, later, his having set up for the night in a graveyard. I should explain that, in this part of Vietnam, the Buddhist cemeteries are a collection of cement domes (actually representing tortoise shells, the body being buried in a seated position, then the dome built on top), perhaps 2 or 3 feet in height and 4-6 feet in diameter, each surrounded by a low, ornamental wall of cement, with the whole collection of 20 or more domes encircled by another cement wall, 3-4 feet in height and perhaps 8-12 inches thick — in other words, an excellent field fortification, providing both concealment and a modicum of cover from direct fire. Normally, the rifle platoons would occupy night ambush positions while company headquarters and the weapons platoon laggered in the cemetery, but occasionally those ambush positions would themselves be in nearby graveyards. We saw no sacrilege in this practice; we never damaged the graves or their decorations, and I like to think that the dead receive some gratification in protecting the living.
It may be that John’s last night on earth was passed in such a setting, but that is not a morbid thing. These graveyards were serene, almost safe places, and within them one usually thought of home and loved ones, not of death.
If I’ve not got my dates off, it was early on the morning of 7 April that we approached the “Lazy W,” so named because of a meandering stretch of river. The South Vietnamese Army (1st Div, I think) was just withdrawing after several days’ fighting there. Presumably, they had killed or chased away all the bad guys, and I think we were ordered to sweep through just to keep us busy. At any rate, there was no intelligence concerning any significant enemy presence.
Leaving our two 81-mm mortars set up along the road into the village and out rucksacks nearby, we moved in a column of platoons, well dispersed, North about 100 meters. At that point, we had entered a group of buildings along a canal (running East-West), at a point where it met the river on our right (running North-South). I deployed 3d Platoon along the canal to cover the open area on the other side. The only way to cross the canal was via a cement bridge on the right flank, where the canal met the river. One platoon and my command group (my two RTOs and I) had crossed the canal when the NVA sprang an L-shaped ambush, taking us under automatic fire from the woodline to the North of the cleared area and also from the opposite bank of the (narrow) river to our East. I was wounded by B-40 fragments immediately, as were several others. I called for artillery and reviewed our options. The NVA were well dug in and concealed, and were placing effective fire from two directions. Those of us North of the canal were pinned down. The bridge that the remainder of the company would have to cross to reinforce us (and we would have to cross to withdraw) was the “humped” type common in Asia, and I could see NVA machinegun bullets grazing its deck. But the other two rifle platoons could support by fire, and they did with a vengeance until, in groups of two and three, our isolated troopers managed to withdraw over the exposed bridge to the relative safety of the canal’s South bank.
There ends my first-hand knowledge of the Lazy W engagement, for I was medevaced shortly thereafter and did not return for several weeks. When I did, it was to experience mixed emotions, for of all those who fell on that first day and in the succeeding several, your brother was the one whose loss I most keenly felt. Of course he was a likeable young man, but my acquaintance with him was professional, and I had come to regard John as a potential platoon sergeant.
As my officers and NCOs brought me up to date on what had transpired since my evacuation, John’s exploits received top billing, and the pain of losing such an exemplary leader was in part assuaged by pride in both the nature and the degree of his heroism. Stripping away the details that would only be hearsay coming from me, what your brother did was to rescue a number of wounded soldiers from an open area, cut off from the rest of the company, and organize them into a defensive position where they were able to hold until friendly forces effected a link-up. His last energies as a living mortal were expended in saving lives, not in taking them, and my impression from what eye witnesses recounted to me is that, but for John, the others would have died or, perhaps worse, been taken prisoner by the NVA. I am almost certain that he was recommended for the Distinguished Service Cross for his actions that day. Given, that the 101st had to approve all our recommendations for decorations, I am disappointed but not surprised that this was downgraded to a Silver Star.
One final personal observation: the last time I recall seeing your brother was as we approached the canal that first day. I was moving forward to recon the area and passed a small group of buildings along the road. Artillery had hit one of them and among the debris in the road was a large collection of photographs of a Vietnamese family. The civilians had of course fled days before, and these mementoes were strewn all over the road. Several young troopers had grabbed one or two as trophies when John called to them and quietly pointed out that they were taking property that meant something to someone who hadn’t done anything to them. It wasn’t a chewing out; it was a moral reminder. Two very shame-faced privates then gathered up the entire collection of photos, and placed them in a neat stack under on the sheltered doorstep of the ruined house. As I glanced back, I saw John pick up a small rock and place it atop the stack of photos to prevent them from blowing away.
John’s achievements in his brief but active lifetime are a source of pride to all of us who knew him, but must be especially gratifying to you and your airborne family. We had a little saying in B Company: “Nobody falls out, no one gets left behind.” John Plunkard was the living embodiment of that shibboleth: mortally wounded, he did not fall out; seeing others in danger, he did not leave them behind. John was not just an American, he was All-American, performing arduous duties with quiet competence and certain moral conviction. He was neither a thrill-seeker nor a bloody killer nor a reckless fool as some war heroes are made out to be. Rather, he was the quiet hero with a strong core of compassion, giving his last measure of devotion on behalf of his fellow troopers. He did not fall out; he left no one behind. To my judgment, an airborne trooper can hope for no finer epitaph.
I regret that the passage of time has erased so many details from my memory. I am confident that I am correct in the main points, and I will never forget the impression John made on me. Thinking of him again is a bit painful, but also gratifying. I know you must miss him. In different ways and to differing degrees, all of us who knew him do.
All the way!
Step Tyner
(St.-Elmo P. Tyner II, LTC, USA, Ret.)