VIETNAM'S MOST DEADLY SNAKE

by Tom Lott

Whenever acquaintances learn that I have an interest in herpetology and that I spent some time in Vietnam during the war, they sometimes ask a couple of predictable questions: What was the most dangerous snake in Vietnam? How many casualties did it cause among our troops?

While it is true Vietnam harbors many deadly creatures, by far the most lethal are those that are microscopic: the organisms that cause malaria, hepatitis, typhus, plague, etc. Despite the presence of several highly dangerous snakes (such as the King Cobra), venomous reptiles were not a serious factor in the casualty equation among American troops in the field. At least not directly.

Ironically, though, one of the more serious losses my infantry unit in Vietnam suffered was blamed, at least in part, on a snake. Thirty-six years later, I still have no idea whether there really was a snake that night and, if so, whether it was venomous. Even that is irrelevant, for no snake could have caused the damage that followed its discovery.

I was a RTO/thump-gunner [radio-operator carrying an M-79 grenade launcher] in a company of the First Infantry Division (the "Big Red One"). We were operating in a beautiful tropical deciduous forest some 40-50 miles north of Saigon, not far from the Cambodian border. It was toward the end of March, about a month after the infamous Tet Offensive of 1968, and the peak of the dry season in the south. Three infantry companies were inserted into the area by helicopter to sweep suspected launching sites for the big 122 mm rockets that were raining down daily on brigade headquarters at Lai Khe.

Within an hour of insertion, we had stumbled onto a number of the missiles mounted on their launchers, apparently routing an entire mixed VC/NVA artillery unit in the process. No small arms fire was exchanged nor contact made of any kind. That the enemy had departed hastily was evidenced by the number of personal items left behind: bed rolls, bags of rice, and meals that lay prepared, ready to consume.

It was late in the afternoon by the time the captured equipment could be loaded onto helicopters and removed by the division intelligence section. The colonel was told to have his battalion remain in the area overnight, taking C-rations for the evening meal. As a reward for the day's success, however, the morning meal would be hot bacon and eggs prepared by cooks who had been (reluctantly) flown out to the field that evening. An unusual treat!

As the shadows lengthened, the three companies formed an oval perimeter perhaps a little over 100 meters in its long diameter. Since Tet, every company had become chronically understrength. It now took the better part of two squads to assemble a "squad-sized" ambush patrol. Still, each company was expected to field an ambush patrol every night in the field. Consequently, instead of pulling ambush patrol every fourth night, it was now every other night. That night it was my turn. We were all apprehensive of the large numbers of enemy troops we knew to be in the area; those of us on the ambush patrol especially so.

Normally, a platoon leader would directly reconnoiter the proposed ambush site, usually by a brief observation flight in a light helicopter. Due to the delay in removing the captured matériel, however, sites were chosen from topographic maps. The fact that we would be going in "cold" only added to the apprehension. It was vitally important that the patrol reach the correct site because the artillery FO [forward observer] would register appropriate areas around the site to receive almost reflexive fire should the ambush be sprung. If we were located in the wrong place, we could well become the unintended victims of our own artillery.

It was deep dusk as we settled into our final position, after occupying another briefly as a decoy. Each man carefully moved forward in turn to aim his Claymore mine at the scant footpath along which the ambush was set. It was a very dark, warm, and humid night. Our night vision became gradually activated with the failing light, enabling us to make out surrounding objects as well as could be hoped for.

Despite the high level of tension, our alertness gradually began to drop. Although, officially, ambush patrols were required to remain fully alert for the duration, groups of two or three men began whispered arrangements for watch shifts to cover the remainder of the night. I had drawn a later watch, which turned out to be a disadvantage. Uncharacteristically, I could not drop off to sleep immediately.

Realizing the large number of enemy troops that undoubtedly remained in the area fed our apprehensiveness. The squad leader, machine gunner, and I were forming the base of the "L-shaped" ambush. I kept the handset of the PRC-25 radio close to my ear, squelch off, volume way down, so we would know what was going on throughout the battalion.

Shortly after we had set up in our final position, Dogface Yankee, the battalion RTO, called to the three company ambush patrols successively for the evening's first hourly situation report. When he called for "Charlie Alpha Papa," I pressed the transmit key on the side of the handset twice, "breaking squelch," the standard indicator of a negative "sitrep."

At about 2000 hrs [8:00 PM], we were startled by the streaming skyward of red tracer rounds several hundred meters from our position, followed by the recognizable chatter of an American M-16 firing a full magazine. The trajectories of the tracers were erratic, indicating that they were ricocheting off the ground.

We surmised that one of the other companies' ambush patrols was being "popped," even though I had heard no indication of such over the radio. The employment of small-arms fire in the initial phase of an ambush had taken us aback, and was highly unorthodox, as the tracers would give away the exact position of the patrol. Normally, opening contact was made with Claymore mines or by mortar or artillery fire called in over the patrol's radio.

On the radio's handset we heard first the company commander and then the colonel himself trying to raise the patrol from which the firing had come. After more firing and several minutes had passed, a quavery-voiced RTO came on the net. He reported that they had been firing at a snake that had emerged from a log behind which they had set up for the night.

The colonel, sounding enraged, ordered them to cease firing with small arms. The RTO responded, virtually shouting into the handset, that they were afraid that the snake was still there and that they were requesting permission to relocate their AP.

Moving an AP that has compromised its location is a very risky proposition. The colonel denied their request, instructing them to use grenades if they felt it was necessary to dispatch the snake, but to attempt to maintain concealment and silence otherwise. After several minutes we saw a bright pink flash from the same direction followed by the unmistakable earthshaking thud of a grenade.

The "snake-infested" AP then called for and received, aerial flares from a mortar platoon within the perimeter. Another unorthodox practice, the flares added visibility to the existing problem of their compromised position. Their fear of "the snake" was so great, however, that they were willing to risk the additional exposure. Another grenade was employed against the reptile shortly after the illumination rounds were fired. Listening to the ensuing chatter over the battalion radio net, I was astounded that this squad of twelve men was being jeopardized because of their exaggerated fear of a snake!

My patrol became even more concerned when the flares, borne on small parachutes, began drifting toward our own position. We pressed ourselves tightly against the ground as the flares, hissing and sputtering, landed in the forest surrounding us. Some hung on the tall trees for what seemed like ten minutes, casting as much light on our position as a streetlamp. No one moved a muscle until the surreal illumination was extinguished.

The colonel acknowledged our frantic radio request to cease firing the illumination rounds, but the order was not passed on before another half-dozen flares lit up the darkness again. Although I am a skeptic of extrasensory perception, I could almost "feel" the eyes of enemy scouts upon us.

Within a few more minutes the colonel had decided to abort the AP that initially had the problem, and, since we had protested about being exposed, he included us in his order. The only thing scarier than being on such an AP is the prospect of having to abandon your site and make your way back into the perimeter in pitch darkness. The possibility of being engaged by some of our own people who might not have received the word was unnerving.

Our first reaction was to disobey the order and suffer the consequences later. Had we not already vigorously protested the recall order over the radio, we would have stayed put, claiming ignorance due to radio failure. Meanwhile, the third AP, on the opposite side of the NDP [Night Defensive Perimeter], behind us, was reporting a "large" enemy movement. The colonel ordered them in too, along with the LPs, which were three-man listening posts only about fifty meters in front of the perimeter. This was standard procedure to insure that there were no friendlies outside the perimeter should the NDP receive a large scale ground assault. With this latest news, we decided to "saddle up" and begin the hazardous walk back to the NDP.

It was by now after 2100 hrs [9:00 PM]. We were separated from the nearest point on the perimeter by about five-hundred meters of thick forest. It would take almost an hour to cautiously work our way back in. We all knew that accidentally tripping a defensive ground flare upon nearing the perimeter could provide enough stimulus for the now thoroughly alert GIs in the NDP to open fire or squeeze off a Claymore mine on us. We were all accustomed to firing reflexively, on full automatic, with little time given to proper target identification. It would not have been the first time that an ambush patrol had been fired upon by its own parent unit, creating that all too familiar oxymoron "friendly fire casualties."

In spite of the risks, we made it safely back inside the perimeter and quickly moved to reinforce the company's section of the NDP against the expected ground assault. The night was brightly lighted from aircraft and artillery flares, enhancing the already high tension level. Little sleep was to be had.

Surprisingly, the night passed without another incident. By dawn, the cooks who had overnighted at the NDP began to set up to prepare the hot breakfast. Oddly, the smell of bacon and eggs wafting through the trees reminded me of breakfasts on childhood hunting and fishing trips.

When word was passed that the cooks were ready to begin serving, we extracted our mess kits from rucksacks and, two at a time, began a line, at ten meter intervals, to be served.

Fewer than a dozen men had claimed their prized hot breakfast when we heard the first metallic "thumps" of enemy mortars coming from the direction of the previous night's fiasco. To strident shouts of "incoming," everyone who had been in the chow line began scrambling for cover. I had just joined the line as the first two men from our platoon returned to the perimeter, mess kits full. In the middle of the NDP, there was virtually no cover available so every slight depression, real or imagined, contained a prostrate infantryman striving to meld his body into the earth.

Almost instantaneously our own mortar platoons began returning fire onto preregistered targets. Within several minutes division artillery rounds began crashing into the forest surrounding our NDP, effectively silencing the Vietnamese mortars.

I doubt that any more than a dozen enemy rounds found our positions that morning and the entire incident probably lasted no more than eight to ten minutes. But when you are hugging the earth, wondering where the next round is going to fall, time really resembles a hackneyed cinematic device, switching to slow motion as pandemonium strikes. Numerous such experiences have convinced me that the perception of time actually seems to dilate in such situations; perhaps passing in inverse proportion to the amount of adrenaline circulating in the bloodstream!

Before the smoke and powder had cleared, men from another platoon in my company were trudging into the center of the NDP laden with ponchos containing the dead and wounded from that section of the perimeter. Perhaps half of the incoming rounds had struck directly within the platoon.

One man, a "short-timer" with less than 15 days remaining on his tour, had died instantly when a chunk of mortar shrapnel ripped into his head beneath his steel pot. Two others died of shrapnel wounds en route to the medivac hospital at Long Binh. Perhaps another six or so were wounded to a lesser extent but enough to be "dusted off."

Some of these wounds would be of the "million-dollar" variety: not severely disabling, but disqualifying the recipients from further infantry service. These fortunate souls would most likely finish their tours as "REMFs" (Rear Echelon M_ F_s), a status that was simultaneously the most vilified yet coveted condition for an average infantryman.