Click, Then Silence: Kontum’s Sudden Fury, June 24 1969

On June 24, 1969, a quiet but deadly mission turned catastrophic for the men of B Company, 1st Battalion, 22nd Infantry Regiment, part of the 4th Infantry Division, operating in the unforgiving jungles of Kontum Province, South Vietnam.

For months, B Company had manned Landing Zone Bass, a remote and often overlooked fire support base carved into the highlands. But the company’s 81mm mortar crew had been reassigned to the airstrip at Dak To, some 10 kilometers away. Their job: fire illumination rounds at night to keep the perimeter visible, secure the strip, and provide indirect fire support if needed.

On that fateful day, the crew received a seemingly routine assignment. A CH-47 Chinook helicopter, part of a regular resupply operation, had lost a sling load of ammunition—tons of highly volatile ordnance—somewhere in the dense jungle. A detachment of mortar men, accompanied by infantry from the line platoons, was ordered to locate the fallen load. They were trucked partway, then marched through the thick, steamy forest—two kilometers by truck, then another 1.5 on foot—until they found the pallet of munitions sprawled among the underbrush.

Their instructions were clear: secure the site, wait for engineers to arrive and blow it in place. Do not touch a thing.

But someone had gotten there first.

As the squad moved into position around the scattered crates, someone stepped on a hidden enemy tripwire, cleverly rigged by the Viet Cong. Two of the survivors would later recall hearing a faint click—the last sound before the explosion. A deafening blast tore through the jungle, shredding trees and men alike. What was meant to be a recovery mission became a kill zone.

Four soldiers were killed instantly in the blast:

• SP4 Gary L. Clark

• SP4 Lavon N. Prather

• PFC Richard D. Roberts

• SP4 Woodrow N. Trissell Jr.

   
  

All were from the mortar platoon. They died without warning, cut down by the violence of a war that knew no safe moments.

PFC Dean C. Wilson was still alive—but only barely. The explosion had thrown him directly into the middle of the ammunition pile. His body was shredded by the blast, and he was struggling to breathe. Every breath was a battle. Three other men had been wounded as well.

One of the survivors was a medic. Though injured himself, he refused to retreat. He ran to Wilson, giving him rescue breaths, then scrambled to assist the other wounded, then returned again and again to Wilson—his hands slick with blood and mud, his ears still ringing from the blast. The squad’s radio had miraculously survived, and a "Dustoff" medevac was called in. Within minutes, two AH-1G Cobra gunships appeared overhead, circling protectively as the rescue chopper fought to penetrate the jungle canopy.

But the jungle was thick, tangled, and defiant. The medevac could not land.

So one by one, the wounded were lifted out by cable, suspended between earth and sky, spinning gently through shafts of sunlight that cut through the leaves. Wilson, however, never made it off the ground. He succumbed to his wounds just moments before he was to be hoisted out.

Only three would survive.

The next morning, as dawn broke over LZ Bass, the battalion chaplain arrived by helicopter from Pleiku. There, beneath a solemn sky and among their shattered brothers-in-arms, the men gathered for a memorial service. Helmets rested atop rifles. Dog tags swayed in the breeze. Names were read. Prayers offered. Tears swallowed.

It was a mission that should’ve been simple. Routine. It became a stark reminder that in Vietnam, even the simplest task could turn lethal in a heartbeat.

Five names. Five warriors. Lost not in some sweeping offensive, but in the quiet, brutal ambushes of daily duty.

We remember:

• SP4 Gary L. Clark

• SP4 Lavon N. Prather

• PFC Richard D. Roberts

• SP4 Woodrow N. Trissell Jr.

• PFC Dean C. Wilson

They served together.
They died together.
And together, they are remembered.