Duster Aids Marines
I arrived in Vietnam in mid-October of 1967. It took me two days of in-country travel to reach my assigned unit, the 1st Battalion of the 44th Artillery, positioned about 15 miles south of the DMZ at Dong Ha.
During this time, I assisted with road convoy security and familiarized myself with battery operations. Once I had a working knowledge of battery operations, I was assigned to a small detachment at Khe Sanh, which included two dusters and two quad-50s. This outpost belonged to the marines, and our dusters and quad-50s were the only army unit present. I remained at this location for about six weeks before being relieved by another officer and rotated back to Dong Ha.
After about two weeks of road security duty with convoys and mine-sweeping operations, I received a new assignment to Gio Linh, a forward position overlooking the DMZ.
Communications at Gio Linh was minimal. We had two field phones in the command bunker—one connected to the camp’s central switch, the other linking our four firing positions. No radios. No real-time intelligence. I had no clear sense of what was happening around me. That didn’t sit well.
Dusters are equipped with radios that could be connected to external speakers, offering a potential solution. Determined to improve our situational awareness, I scavenged a speaker and ran communication wire from my bunker to the nearest duster, about 30 yards away. Then, after securing a couple of frequencies from the camp command center, I settled in to listen to the war unfolding around me.
The first night was quiet. The second was anything but.
I was tuned to the marine infantry company’s frequency when something alarming was beginning to develop. A rifle squad had entered the DMZ under cover of darkness to set up an ambush. Within minutes, the tension in their voices was unmistakable, an enemy force, either an NVA platoon or possibly a company, had begun encircling them. Outnumbered and surrounded, the marines’ growing anxiety was clear in every transmission.
As they attempted short, hasty retreats, a marine counter-mortar radar unit picked up the movement. They began tracking both the marines and their pursuers, calling out enemy positions in real time. It was clear the squad wouldn’t make it out without help.
The war had suddenly drawn close, and every second mattered.
I knew our dusters could provide indirect fire support. Without hesitation, I grabbed the field phone and called the gun crew positioned on the northern perimeter overlooking Highway One. “Are your guns surveyed in, and can you fire a nighttime, indirect fire support mission?” Their reply came instantly: “Affirmative.”
Without wasting a beat, I ordered, “Prepare for action.”
Duster and Radar fired two test rounds for conformation and coordination
Next, I contacted the counter-mortar Radar unit via field phone.
“This is the Duster CO,” I announced. “Like some help? I have one Duster ready to fire.” Their gratitude came through loud and clear.
I requested the first coordinates—100 yards beyond the target. The crew fired a single round. Radar confirmed: spot on. I ordered a second test, 50 yards to the right—again, spot on.
With the Radar and Duster coordination confirmed, Radar took control of operations:
Radar tracked NVA movements and guided the Marines.
Radar communicated with the firing Duster via radio and the Duster CP (Lt. Grace) via field phone.
Radar advised the Marines in the safest direction for their sprint toward the firebase.
Radar provided firing coordinates and cleared the Duster to fire only when the area was safe.
The Duster responded only to Radar’s command to ensure Marine safety. Communication flowed constantly—Duster to Radar by radio, and Duster CP via field phone.
Suppression fire typically ranged from 15 to 25 rounds each burst.
What followed was a game of survival. We fired a burst, the marine squad moved. The enemy tried to reestablish their encirclement, and we fired again. Burst after burst, movement after movement, we bought the marines time, breaking the enemy’s momentum and disrupting their advance.
After nearly forty-five minutes, the squad reached a small tree line where our duster fire could no longer assist. However, a marine tank only twenty yards from the duster was able to pick up where we left off. Using their infra-red search light and mounted 50 caliber machine gun, they laid down covering fire as the squad made their final sprint back to camp.
I made my way to the entrance gate to meet them. I didn’t need words to understand their relief. They were back. They were safe.
That night has stayed with me—not just because of the intensity, but because of what it demonstrated. Complete strangers, from different units with different missions, came together in the moment, each playing their role without hesitation or question. Duster, tank, radar, infantry weren’t just separate pieces of a machine. We were a team.
I only wish I had a recording of that chaotic event, the quick decisions, the urgent radio calls, the seamless cooperation. It was proof of what could happen when training, trust, and instinct took over.
And on that night, it made all the difference.