Final Mission of LCpl Patrick R. Hendrickson

Final Mission of LCpl Patrick R. Hendrickson

War in Vietnam took many forms. It was fought in jungles, paddies, hamlets, and cities. But some of the most dangerous ground of all was the road — that unforgiving ribbon of dust and broken asphalt that linked outposts, villages, and firebases across I Corps. For the Marines tasked with keeping those roads open, every step forward meant stepping into potential death. Mines, booby traps, hidden artillery shells, and command-detonated charges were the enemy’s weapons of choice, designed to catch the Marines in predictable patterns, exploiting their mission of keeping the lifelines of the war moving.

On the morning of November 6, 1968, Lance Corporal Patrick R. Hendrickson stepped onto one of those roads for what should have been a routine engineering sweep. It would become his final mission.

The Road to Dien Ban

By late 1968, the Marines of Company B, 7th Engineer Battalion were stretched across the roads of Quang Nam Province, responsible for ensuring that National Route QL-1 — the most important highway in all of South Vietnam — remained open to American, ARVN, and Republic of Korea forces. QL-1 ran like a spine along the coast, linking Da Nang, Hue, and countless smaller towns. Without it, units in the field could not receive supplies, reinforcements, or medical evacuation. Mines were the enemy’s equalizer, a cheap and devastating way to halt movement and inflict heavy casualties.

The Marines had to counter that threat every day. They swept more than 70 miles of roadway under the full knowledge that the Viet Cong and NVA observed them constantly. Every sweep was predictable. Every pattern known. And every day carried the chance of a mass-casualty attack.

LCpl Patrick Hendrickson and his fellow Marines understood the risk, but they accepted it without hesitation. These were combat engineers — Marines trained to clear obstacles, breach minefields, and ensure the mobility of the fighting forces. It was hard, relentless, and thankless work, but it saved countless lives.

That morning, north of Dien Ban, the enemy had laid a trap that would become one of the deadliest incidents faced by the sweep teams of the 7th Engineer Battalion.

The Ambush at the Trees

Two kilometers northwest of Dien Ban, the road cut through a stretch of scrub and scattered trees. It appeared harmless — just another segment to be cleared before midday. What the Marines could not see was that high above them, hidden among branches, were ten 105mm artillery shells.

The Viet Cong had spent days preparing the ambush. They climbed trees, secured the heavy rounds overhead, wired them with precision, and camouflaged the charges so completely that even the sharpest Marine eye would not detect them. Unlike buried mines, which triggered when stepped on or driven over, these were command-detonated — meaning the enemy could wait, watch, and choose the exact moment to inflict maximum devastation.

As the sweep group moved forward, they checked the edges of the road, the drainage culverts, and the shoulders. Their eyes were down. Their minds focused on the earth in front of their boots.

Then, with brutal suddenness, the trees exploded.

The ten 105mm rounds detonated simultaneously, unleashing a shockwave that tore through the Marines and their ARVN and ROK counterparts. The blast radius was massive — far deadlier than any single mine. Shrapnel whirled through the air like a storm of metal, cutting down anyone within reach.

Four U.S. Marines were killed. Four ARVN soldiers. One Korean Marine.

Dozens were thrown to the ground. Vehicles rocked. Dust filled the road, turning the world into chaos.

Among the wounded was Lance Corporal Patrick R. Hendrickson, grievously injured and struggling for his life.

The Fight for Survival

Hendrickson was rushed from the blast zone by Marines and corpsmen who moved on instinct, operating under the roar of ringing ears and the fear that secondary explosions might follow. Casualty evacuation procedures were second nature — tourniquets applied, bandages pressed against shrapnel wounds, men lifted onto stretchers or the backs of fellow Marines.

LCpl Hendrickson was alive, but barely. His wounds were devastating. Yet he held on, demonstrating the kind of grit and endurance that defined Marines in Vietnam. Each hour he survived was a testament to both his resilience and the hopes of the men around him who refused to believe he would die.

Evacuated from the battlefield, he was transferred through multiple levels of care, fighting infection, internal trauma, and massive blood loss.

For more than two weeks, the battle he fought was not against the Viet Cong or NVA — it was against the injuries sustained in that terrible instant on November 6.

On November 22, 1968, LCpl Patrick Hendrickson lost that fight. His official status changed to Died of Wounds (DOW). He became another young Marine — one of too many — whose life ended far from home, in a manner as tragic as it was heroic.

The Marines Who Fell Beside Him

The Marines killed instantly on November 6 were:

• Cpl William R. Embry
• Pfc Laurence B. Green
• SSgt Rodney S. Kiaha

LCpl Hendrickson would join them sixteen days later.

These names represent more than a casualty list. They were brothers-in-arms. Men who shared the same missions, the same dangers, and the same silent hopes of making it home alive. Their loss was felt deeply within Company B and throughout the engineer battalion.

Investigators arrived at the site and understood immediately what they were looking at: an expertly orchestrated ambush, planned weeks in advance, built with discipline and cunning. The Viet Cong had anticipated the engineers’ path, waiting for the moment their sweep team was most vulnerable.

The attack was not random.
Not improvisational.
Not opportunistic.

It was deliberate, calculated, and designed to cause catastrophic loss of American life.

And it succeeded.

The Cost of Road Clearing in Vietnam

Road clearing was among the most dangerous duties in the war, yet it rarely receives the same recognition as infantry assaults or large-scale battles. But the engineers of the 7th Engineer Battalion faced danger every single day, often without the shielding of infantry overwatch or air support.

Their enemy was invisible.
Their battlefield was predictable.
And their job could not wait.

Without cleared roads:

• convoys could not move
• firebases could not be resupplied
• patrols could not advance
• casualties could not be evacuated
• allied forces could not maneuver

Every mile they cleared saved lives. Every mile they failed to clear cost lives.

LCpl Hendrickson and those who worked beside him bore an enormous responsibility. Theirs was a job where courage was measured not in the number of firefights survived but in the willingness to walk into danger again and again, knowing the odds were never in their favor.

Two Weeks of Hope and Heartbreak

For the Marines of Company B, the days after the ambush were filled with grief, but also hope — hope that Patrick Hendrickson might pull through. Word of his condition traveled back to the company through whispers, handwritten notes, and brief updates delivered during resupply or rotation cycles.

Men who had been with him on the sweep patrol held onto every fragment of good news. Others prayed quietly in their hooches or foxholes. In war, hope becomes a form of resistance — a refusal to accept that death is inevitable.

When news finally came that he had succumbed to his wounds, the silence within the company was palpable. A Marine had fought for his life for sixteen days — and still, the war claimed him.

A Marine Remembered

LCpl Patrick R. Hendrickson was more than a casualty statistic. More than a line in a report. More than a name carved into black granite on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

He was a young man with a future ahead of him — a life with dreams still unfolding. Men who served alongside him would remember his humor, his work ethic, his willingness to carry more than his share of the burden, and his spirit in the face of adversity.

To the Marines of the 7th Engineer Battalion, he was one of their own. A man who walked the same dust, breathed the same humid air, and faced the same dangers with quiet determination.

To his family, he was irreplaceable.

To history, he is a reminder of the enormous price paid by the men who supported combat operations — men whose sacrifices were often overshadowed by the larger battles raging around them.

The Legacy of the Engineer Marines

The Marines who cleared the roads of Vietnam were part of a lineage of combat engineers dating back to the island battles of the Pacific and the hedgerows of Normandy. They built, they cleared, they bridged, and they bled. Their work made every Marine operation possible.

In Quang Nam Province, where LCpl Hendrickson served, the roads were lifelines. Without them, the entire III Marine Amphibious Force would have been immobilized. Every step the engineers took was a contribution to the success of the mission — even on the days when the cost was unbearably high.

Marines often say that every job is essential. The engineers proved that truth every day.

The Ambush Site Today

The area northwest of Dien Ban looks different today — paved roads, quiet traffic, rice fields, and a landscape that has healed over scars that once ran deep. But for those who study the war or who walked those roads during 1968, the memory of that ambush remains vivid.

In the grass and dust of that November morning, nine allied servicemen lost their lives. One fought beyond that day, holding fast until November 22. The ground remembers, even if time does not.

And it is our job — at Ghosts of the Battlefield — to ensure that memory is not lost.

Final Reflection

LCpl Patrick R. Hendrickson did not die in a moment of glory. He did not fall during a dramatic firefight or an assault on enemy positions. He died performing the kind of mission that kept thousands of other Marines alive. His was a death that reflected the quiet, constant danger that defined Vietnam — a danger rarely chronicled in books but deeply felt by those who lived through it.

His sacrifice is part of a much larger story: the story of the men who walked the roads so others could drive them; the men who faced hidden bombs so others could reach the battlefield; the men who understood that heroism sometimes looks like an engineer with a mine detector stepping into the unknown.

Patrick Hendrickson stands among them.

He stands among the honored dead of the Vietnam War — remembered by his fellow Marines, carried in the hearts of his family, and now enshrined within the legacy we seek to preserve.

Rest easy, Marine.
We carry your story forward.