I first met Michael Patrick McQueer on his first day in Vietnam, as he joined the 5th Infantry Division. He had been living a happy life with his extended family, since birth, in his home community of Traverse City, Michigan. At 18, he volunteered to serve in the U.S. Army to help win the Vietnam War. His life was changed forever.
D Company was positioned near the demilitarized zone, or DMZ, as far north as you could go in free South Vietnam. Two miles in the distance, we could see the huge red Communist North Vietnam flag waving, marking North Vietnam’s southern border, and armed with 5,000 border guards, the 27th NVA Regiment. We, with our 100 soldiers, were then encamped on Mutter’s Ridge, the famous rocky mountainous ridge in I Corp, that stretched along the DMZ. In that small, hostile area, more bullets, bombs, artillery, grenades, claymores, etc. were fired and more American soldiers died in combat than any other place in Vietnam.
Michael came to our company on the resupply helicopter, near the end of the day. His appearance made an impression on us because, for a moment, we could picture in him the typical America, and the ideal situation we dreamed of one day returning to: The Glorious America, which he had just departed from hours ago.
Our company, D Company, had fought the enemy for nearly 70 days in the mud and the jungle in brutal, no-holds-barred, deadly battles. D Company had fought the elements and the enemy, without a break, without a hot meal, without a shower, without a change of clothing, without relief. Day and night, we endured unspeakable hardship, sleepless nights, hordes of mosquitoes, without most of the elementary comforts of life, and we were exhausted, out of food, out of ammunition, short of men and frightened of the huge battle that was coming.
Michael squeezed in with our company resupply of C-rations, supplies, bullets, bombs grenades, etc. The Huey helicopter came in fast and hot, spending a minimal amount of seconds on the ground. A touch-and-go maneuver, allowing just enough time to throw everything off — for Army intelligence had routinely informed us there were 5,000 enemy soldiers, armed with huge weapons, hidden near us and in the terrain all around us.
Enemy soldiers very much wanted each of us Americans dead for the $1,000 bounty their government gave them. To shoot down a helicopter was the ultimate enemy prize.
Seeing Michael leap out of that helicopter, the epitome of an All-American, sent a shock through me. I can still remember seeing him, even though it is now 55 years later. Here was a young, handsome soldier, full of life, fresh from America, the picture of health and everything American. He was clean-cut. He was wearing a brand-new uniform. He was freshly shaved. He had a short haircut — something radically different from us 100 men who had become one with the jungle, barely above animals in our daily battle to survive. He was muscular and handsome, proud to be a soldier, eager to contribute his fair share, determined to help America fight communists and win this horrible war.
He was a sight for sore eyes.
My first impression was, “Oh, you poor kid. You are just a kid.” (I was 19). He had just landed in the worst place in Vietnam at the worst possible time in the worst possible situation as a new soldier, just as a major battle was forming all around us. Nearly 1,500 new soldiers were killed on their first day in Vietnam, and nearly 1,000 were killed on their last day in Vietnam. War is always brutal, and there was no safe place in Vietnam at any time during that war. Inexperience was the most deadly factor, which so often contributed to many deaths in combat. War allows no mistakes, and the Vietnam War was no exception.
It wasn’t just me who was shocked seeing Michael. All 100 of us in D Company must have stopped — for they hadn’t seen a normal human being coming from the “world,” America, in such a long time. The strange sight of such a fresh, young, clean-cut normal human was something D Company hadn’t expected, and every one of our 100 men must have briefly thought, “Wow, I hope this fresh young kid makes it,” before they went back to work, building up our protective defensive perimeter. We watched out for each other.
But Michael must have been the most shocked as he looked around in wonder and amazement at his strange new home. He saw 100 pathetic, war-weary men; muddy, bloody, sick, exhausted soldiers. Our uniforms were torn, filthy, rotting off our backs, as we bore the battle scars, effects and wear and tear of fighting nearly 70 days against a relentless enemy in the unforgiving jungle without a break.
He must have thought, “What kind of group, what kind of situation, did I just join? They look more like animals than men.” He was right. Often, infantrymen, fighting daily for survival, do become like animals, fighting against the elements, fighting against the ever-present enemy, fighting for our own lives while fighting for our beloved country and, most of all, for our loved ones back home in America.
Night was coming fast, and we had to quickly dig in to get ready for any enemy assault that might be coming for we were in “very bad country.” It was decided since Michael was the newest soldier, fresh from America, to place him and his dug foxhole in a position in the safest place on our perimeter. Everyone remembered their first night of combat in Vietnam, where each of us was fearing the worst, imagining the worst and convinced we saw the enemy creeping up on us.
To survive your first night in Vietnam as an infantryman was celebrated, as now you only had 364 more days and nights to go. Every new morning was a victory, and every day religiously counted off on our short-time calendars. His foxhole was placed near a thick thicket, where it would be the most difficult for the enemy to come through. As night fell, we tried to welcome him into D Company with a quick “hello,” a friendly pat and a kind word, but his fears must have been great. Being in a strange country, to kill other human beings and being shot at by other humans does that to any soldier.
Combat is the ultimate hunting game that has no comparison.
Now, it was quiet; night had settled in fast with its ominous forbearing, as everyone was listening for danger. It was a few hours later, in the pitch dark, Michael came crawling up to the lieutenant and said in a controlled whisper, “I got movement of men coming at me; I can hear them coming.”
We all heard this and smiled to ourselves, thinking, “Sure, Michael, you got movement below you.” We had put him in the safest place in our perimeter. Anyone coming through that thicket would make a ton of noise. Who doesn’t imagine this in their first night? The lieutenant patted him on the back to calm his nerves. He gently reassured him to go back to his position and listen more closely. He said, “Michael, everyone imagines they have enemy soldiers coming at them on their first night in Vietnam. Come back if you hear any more noise.”
Humbled, Michael crawled back to his foxhole. But, 20 minutes later, he crawled back and says more loudly, more urgently, “I got movement of men in front of me.” He got sent back again, but then 5 minutes later, he is back again, nearly hysterical with fear. He said, “I tell you, there are enemy soldiers coming at my foxhole. I can hear them. I am going to start shooting.” The lieutenant, now irritated, said sternly, “Michael, I will crawl back with you, with our new starlight scope, and take a look, but you have to calm down and realize everybody hears things in their first night.”
A starlight scope was the newest invention of the Army at that time. It could greatly magnify the light of the stars so that you could look through it in pitch darkness and see pea green shadows of approaching enemy soldiers.
The lieutenant crawled to Michael’s foxhole and lifted up the starlight scope, took one look, dropped it and shouted loudly to all 100 men, “Fire, fire, fire.” Every one of our soldiers opened up with every weapon we had and poured gunfire and explosives into the dark night in front of us. After we are almost out of bullets, finally, the captain calls for a cease-fire, and we spent the rest of the night on edge on 100% alert. Constant artillery echoed around us, as we attempted to kill those retreating. It was a very tense night, with no sleep. In the morning, at first light, we saw that we had killed seven enemy soldiers only a few feet in front of our guns; they had dragged many more bodies away during the night. An alert Michael McQueer had saved us that night. The enemy soldiers had fooled all of us veterans. They had already been hiding in that thicket.
Michael McQueer became a hero on his first night in Vietnam. By his diligent watchfulness, he had alerted our leaders and saved our 100 men of D Company from certain death.
Unknown to us, these enemy soldiers were hiding inside that thicket where we had placed Michael’s foxhole. The enemy was hiding, waiting for an opportunity to execute their “Flower Blossom” strategy, where they would penetrate into the perimeter in one spot, get inside of the circle of men and trap the perimeter from both inside and outside, with explosives, bullets and RPGs. It is one of the deadliest military strategies and it was often successful. Only because of Michael’s alertness and resolve did most of the 100 men return to America at the end of their tour, including me.
But Michael McQueer didn’t have long to be a hero. Two days later, we were encamped on Hill 162, which was supposed to be our last day in the field, where we would be helicoptered back to our base camp for a few days’ rest. All we had to do was to move over to Hill 161, which was a quarter of a mile away. Michael was going to walk at the head of the column that day. We were hesitant to put him in that vulnerable position, as point man, because he was so new, but he insisted that he was going to pull his load, just like every other soldier.
It was 9 a.m., we had just had breakfast, and we were looking forward to going back for a rest at our home basecamp at the end of this day, after 70 straight days in the field. All 100 men were saddling up with their equipment and weapons, heading for our destination in a single line, when suddenly machine gun fire and AK-47 bullets raked our company. The enemy, the 27th NVA Regiment, during the night has set up an ambush, rightly judging that we were going to that destination. Michael McQueer, in the head of this column, and 21-year-old Sgt. Ruben Carbajal of El Paso, Texas, were killed immediately.
We had bumped into the front line of the 27th NVA Regiment that was forming for another battle two days later, which is another story. We fought all day on Hill 162, hitting the enemy with everything we had. Planes dove in with bombs, gunships raked the area, grenades, machine-gun fire bombarded that whole area as we fought to defeat their attack and retrieve Michael and Ruben’s bodies. Finally, we assaulted Hill 161 and drove the enemy back enough to bring their bullet-riddled bodies back. This was only the first day of a vicious three-day battle, but that’s another story for another day.
Fifty-five years later, as I am writing this narrative, I can feel the fear and still see the faces of Michael and Ruben on that awful morning as they walked past my foxhole, heading toward Hill 161. In a strange mixup of orders, Ruben had walked in my place that fateful morning.
In the way of God’s Providence, Michael and Ruben would die in that firefight, but I would miraculously live to write about this battle 55 years later. Michael McQueer was a hero on his first night in Vietnam. A Michigan hero.
Michael Patrick McQueer was born April 14, 1951, and died Nov. 11, 1969. He is buried at the Grand Traverse Memorial Gardens. His name is inscribed on the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C., at location 16W/59.
At our last 5th Infantry Division reunion, we folded and dedicated an American flag, which we hope to present to the McQueer family on this coming Monday, Memorial Day.
About the author: Ron Van Beek is the national chaplain for the United States Army’s Society of the Fifth Division.