The War: Thunder from a Distant Hill

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five northernmost provinces of South Viet Nam, a total of 79,000 U.S. Marines stand ready.

Death Valley. Despite the advantages they enjoy over Dienbienphu's doomed defenders, the Marines involved in the Con Thien Sitzkrieg are in something less than an enviable position. The 100 or so Communist guns that are trained on them with lethal accuracy are difficult to spot and almost impossible to wipe out except by direct hits. With ranges of up to 18 miles and guns as big as 152-mm. "bunker crackers," enemy ordnance plasters the Marine outposts almost at will. By firing only a few rounds and then quickly moving their artillery pieces or hiding them—in bunkers scooped out behind thick jungle foliage, in caves or under houses—the Communists have been largely successful in preventing U.S. forward observers from spotting their positions.

The artillery bombardments have left the three red hills of Con Thien a crater-pocked moonscape. Monsoon rains, a month ahead of their normal mid-October arrival, have churned the outpost into a quagmire reminiscent of Ypres in World War I. Everything must be brought into the outpost by helicopter to a landing zone grimly known as "Death Valley," or over the unpaved road from Cam Lo. Everything rots or mildews. The Marines at Con Thien live on C rations. Because water is scarce, they shave only every other day and can seldom wash.

They live in crude, sandbagged underground bunkers where often the only light comes from an improvised candle with a rag as a wick. There are no connecting trenches; the leathernecks, some of them raw teenagers, must move at a run from bunker to bunker. Where once a crude French fortress stood, not a single building or even a tent breaks the bleak horizon. Often the only signs of life are a horde of bold rats and a few cats. "The men think they keep the rats down," grumbled one officer. "I suspect they share the garbage."

Leatherneck Square. The Communists fire their artillery at Con Thien on a random schedule to keep the Marines guessing when the next bombardment or the lone round of explosives will crunch into the camp. "Those single rounds are the most dangerous," says a young Marine. "But the barrages wear you down. You just lie there shaking and saying 'Please, Christ, just get me out of this one.' "

The only relatively safe spot at Con Thien is the aid station presided over by Navy Lieut. Donald Shortridge, 26, of Indianapolis. Dug deep into the muck and reinforced by heavy wooden beams and a mountain of sandbags, his spartan shelter is strictly for keeping the wounded alive until they can be evacuated to hospitals in the rear. Shortridge uses a stretcher balanced between two sawhorses as his emergency operating table; hissing Coleman lanterns furnish the light, and an armored amtrack stands outside to accommodate extra patients. Most of the wounded suffer from arm and leg injuries. "That 20-lb. flak vest is worth five times its weight in gold," says Shortridge. "It must have saved a hundred lives."

At night the Communist artillery eases up, and the 5,000 North Vietnamese troops surrounding the Con Thien area become active. They probe the outpost's defenses, shove bamboo bangalore torpedoes under the barbed wire to breach the perimeter, and unleash mortar and recoilless-rifle