STARS AND STRIPES PHOTOS BY *FC DAVf= DARDZINSKI, USA

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Hell, it's all right. I'm kind of grateful
for it now. I wouldn't have known what
any of this stuff was all about if I hadn't
come over . They wanted the best Kentucky has, so they called us/7

HPHEY ALL SPOKE with the
-*- same dry and friendly accent
about the same things—the same
town, the same high school, the
same girls.
One of them turned down a portable
phonograph playing Hank Williams'
"There'll Be No Teardrops Tonight" and
offered an open can of warm beer to a
visitor. "Here. We'll make a Kcntuckian
out of you. Kentuckians drink beer."
All of the youngsters who sat behind a
track-mounted 155mm howitxer — a ponderous machine that resembles a rolling
pillbox — were from Carrollton, Ky. A
year before, they were working on highways, raising hell at drive-ins and making marriage plans. Then they got the
word — by radio, telephone or word of
mouth. No more once-a-week meeting at
the National Guard Armory in Carrollton,
or two weeks at summer camp. This was
it; they were in. The 138th Artillery was
called up — even if everybody in it had
just sweated out the long Pueblo crisis,
as their older brothers had once barely
cleared the Berlin Blockade.
They were rudely and swiftly dumped
into a fourth dimension called Vietnam —

and now sat on a mountain that had been
beheaded and stripped by bulldozers, an
awful place called Fire Support Base
Bastogne.
A fire base is a cocked mace of crushing firepower — a compact but powerful
concentration of artillery that can throw
a heavy package of steel-jacketed explosive in any direction. Below the Kentuckians, a battery of large and deafening 175mm howitzers were making life
uncomfortable and perhaps very short
for crouching enemy in the A Shau Valley. The smaller guns of the National
Guard outfit were spidered in all directions, at the low-lying cowl of thickly-forested m o u n t a i n s around the fire base.
The youngsters from Carrollton had
nothing to do; they had not fired since
the previous afternoon, when the forward
observer saw some figures moving
through a nearby treeline. He instantly
decided they were not friends oi his. lie
called back and the artillerymen piled
into the hot, narrow, turret-like housing
of the gun. For 45 minutes they mechanically hoisted rounds into a yawning
breech, then braced and winced as the
barrage went out with a loud, heavy
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sl;m. A treeline ahead was smothered in
a leave of dust and flame. They fired 150
tines — hard, shirts-off, ear-battering
wo'k.
vjow — nothing. They only stood and
w; ted to fire. They may fire one round a
da or 1,000, depending on which way an
unredictable war might go. It is a formless, directionless war with no fixed
liti.'s, firmly secured flanks or pinpointed
etMnies — a war in which an enemy battalion can suddenly materialize in a
thick, empty woods and a decisive, bloodpoker battle can start after two patrols
accidentally stumble into each other.
A stuck of canvas-covered ammunition crates became a table for an outdoor
hearts game, and a portable photograph
that had traveled 13,500 miles played
Hank Williams. They wrote letters and
read pocket novels. They talked of the
other world they had known.
"I'd just got off construction work On
Highway 71," 22-year-old Eddie L. Satchwell recalls. "I pulled into the teen-age
center, ready for a good night and a good
t i m e . A bunch ran up and said, 'You're
activated.' I didn't believe it and told
them to knock it off — don't even kid like
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that. I didn't believe anybody until I went
back out to the car and turned on the radio. That was it; before I knew what was
happening, I was over here.
"Hell, it's all right. Wasn't as bad as I
thought. I'm kind of grateful for it now; I
wouldn't have known what any of this
stuff was all about if I hadn't come over.
It's not so much dangerous up here as it
is monotonous."
True enough. The Kentuckians have
never seen the face of the enemy — nor
even heard the slashing whistle of an incoining round. When they first moved
into the fire base five weeks before, astride a footpath that is being widened into
a highway, the guns kept up a thunderous, all-hours racket. Cpl. Earl W.
Wilson told of the time, "when Charlie was
running all over the valley," when the
guns poured out 900 rounds in 24 hours—
so many that trucks went out on an insecure road, rolling back and forth to the
Gia Le Combat Base to keep the smoking
howitxer breeches fed. A cease-fire and
stand down did not come until 3 a.m.
Now — the young Kentuckians are
very good about keeping in touch with
their families. Letter writing is a fine

way to fill dead time. Even the hearts
game takes on a dull, go-through-the-motions monotony,
"Fire mission!" The hearts players
stuff their cards in their pockets. Satchwell lays an open pocketbook face down
on the canvas. They run to the gun. One
round soars out. They walk back. Cards
are carefully retrieved from pockets and
the game resumes. Satchwell picks up his
book. No need to glance at the title; it
could be anything from Ernest Ilaycox to
Aldous Huxley. It will pass through every
hand in the gun section and the fire base,
until the pages are as thin as ancient
parchment and the book falls to pieces.
Reading is something to do — even if you
only stare blankly at big words.
There they are — a good part of a
whole generation in a small town. They
arc here because they have to be, doing it
because it must be done. It is hard to forget any of them — Earl Wilson, Duane
Marsh, Wayne Smith, Eddie L. Satchwell.
"They wanted the best Kentucky
had," Satchwell grinned, "so they called
us."

—H.D.s&s

Deafening thunderstorm of fire
power bursts at the edge of the
A Shau Valley (top left), the
storm before the long lull in fire
missions. Artillerymen, young
Kentuckians and old vets, play
cards, change worn out gun
tubes, suddenly find themselves
called out for another mission.

12

13

Pacific Stars And Stripes, Tokyo, Japan, JP
July 13, 1969, Page 34
https://newspaperarchive.com/pacific-stars-and-stripes-jul-13-1969-p-34/