Volume 99, Number 4 November 8, 1994
. __ .
. -*- N A M V E T -*- ____/ \_ .
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. Managing Editor \ Quangtri .
. ---------------- \_/\ \_ Hue .
. G. Joseph Peck \_Ashau Phu Bai .
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. Jerry Hindle \|/ ( \_*Chu Lai .
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. / ! \ .
. Guest Author ! !___ \ .
. --------------- ! \/\____! .
. Michael McCombs, Sr. ! ! .
. Seattle, Washington / Dak To ! .
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. "In the jungles of 'Nam, some of us ( -------- ! .
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. one another along and were able / -------- \ .
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. never changed. Today, free of the ! * / .
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. many veterans have endured, _/ / .
. NAM VET is a shining beacon, __/ ! .
. a ray of hope, and a _ __/ \ ! .
. reminder that the _____( )/ ! Camranh Bay .
. lessons learned / !__ ! .
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. price shall not \ Bien Hoa \ / .
. be forgotten - ! Chu Chi * \ __/ .
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. repeated!!!" ____ \ III Corps \ _/ .
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. / ____/ Managing Editor .
. / Mekong/ .
. ! Delta/ This newsletter is a "special edition" .
. ! ____/ from the writings of Michael McCombs, Sr. .
. ! / .
. ! / NamVet is humbled to have such an honor .
. ! __/ .
. \_/ gjp .
. .
Fading Photographs
From My
Mind's Own Album
Michael D. McCombs
September 7, 1993
Copyright 1993 Michael D. McCombs, Sr.
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without the written permission of the author, except where and as
permitted by law.
By definition, this is a work of fiction. The names of all
Americans and some other details have been changed. The rest is as
portrayed by an aging memory. I make no pretense that this is a
work of history. It is more a work of remembered feelings of long
ago.
=====================================================================
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
1. Fading Photographs From My Mind's Own Album
Dedication .................................................. 1
Thanks ...................................................... 2
NamVet/EVAC Copyright Notice ................................ 3
Fading Photographs .......................................... 4
A Comment or Two ............................................ 6
Jargon ...................................................... 7
Prologue .................................................... 10
2. Background
Special Forces .............................................. 11
What's in a name? ........................................... 13
Jungle ...................................................... 14
Witness ..................................................... 16
The Electronic Chapel ....................................... 19
Locker, Utility ............................................. 20
Elephant .................................................... 22
3. Middle Distance
Nha Trang ................................................... 23
Kontum ...................................................... 25
Special Project ............................................. 29
Montagnard .................................................. 32
Hootch ...................................................... 35
Saigon ...................................................... 37
CIB ......................................................... 39
Rocket Sunrise .............................................. 43
Hootch Raisin' .............................................. 45
Hootch of Hootches! ......................................... 48
Flashlights ................................................. 49
Midwife ..................................................... 52
Rehearsal ................................................... 54
Just a refresher ............................................ 58
Champion .................................................... 59
Maggie ...................................................... 60
Tri-Borders ................................................. 63
Morning After ............................................... 66
The Fourth .................................................. 67
Cooky ....................................................... 69
The Road From Pleiku ........................................ 71
Rosie's ..................................................... 73
Dressed For Success ......................................... 75
Good For The Back ........................................... 77
Dining Out .................................................. 79
Covey ....................................................... 80
Sundays ..................................................... 82
Party Night! ................................................ 84
Ashau ....................................................... 86
Letter From Home ............................................ 92
Idle Moments ................................................ 94
Prairie Fire ................................................ 96
Washington .................................................. 99
One Zero .................................................... 101
Up Close and Personal ....................................... 104
Blood Brother ............................................... 106
Scream ...................................................... 109
Widow Call .................................................. 110
Heavy Rain .................................................. 112
Village ..................................................... 113
Bear ........................................................ 116
First Time .................................................. 117
Black-eyed Peas ............................................. 120
Bomblets .................................................... 121
Redleg ...................................................... 124
The Way It Was .............................................. 125
Weather ..................................................... 127
RON ......................................................... 129
I Don't Remember the Birds .................................. 130
Fog ......................................................... 132
Buddha ...................................................... 134
Highland Sunset ............................................. 135
Home Again .................................................. 136
4. Foreground
Freedom Bird ................................................ 139
Survivor's Guilt ............................................ 141
Healing ..................................................... 142
Just Lucky, I Guess ......................................... 144
5. Patina of Age
An Old Picture .............................................. 146
Hendrix ..................................................... 147
Words ....................................................... 149
After Twenty Years .......................................... 151
Some Gave All... ............................................ 155
=====================================================================
Fading Photographs From My Mind's Own Album
=====================================================================
Dedication:
For The VWAR-L Lounge
and those that inhabit it.
For the incentive and sanity to write.
And for:
Greg Orman
&
Mike McCombs, Jr.
so that they might understand.
Thanks
Special thanks: To Lydia Fish, the list owner of VWAR-L, and to all
the denizens of that special place in cyberspace we call THE LIST.
They accepted me as I am and tolerated this gloom being placed in
front of them, time and time again. Without them, it would never
have happened.
There are so many of them who have helped in the recalling and the
writing that it is impossible to recount them all here, or anywhere
else for that matter. Most did it by simply being and sharing their
own pieces with me. In no particular order, I wish to thank Monte
Olsen (Scissor butt), Tim Driscoll (T-bomb), Tom Sykes (Dog
Handler), Jim Lynch (FNG), Tom Edmonds (Terminator), Toby Hughes
(Sharkbait), Pats Givens (Rosie), Richard Rohde (Roadie), Marc Aden
(voodoo chile), Dan Okada (DanO), Jack Carpenter (JackC), Jack
Mallory (Cap'n Jack), Michelle (REMF librarian) and Mike (V-man)
Viehman, Nancy Kendall (Motor Oil), Dennis Koho (Mayor), Lisa
Harmon (Buffalo Gal), John Creech (creecherman), and a lot of
others whose names will not come. Thank you all very much.
And a final thanks to a friend who will not read this. His story is
here, too. Thank you for having been my friend, my little Jarai
brother....
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Fading Photographs
The crackle of ancient paper
rustles through my mind,
like parchment
overhandled, frayed,
breaking of age.
Tired and worn
from the passage of years.
They were fresh once,
in another place,
in another time.
They carried the images
of loved ones, of places
I once knew, caught forever;
or so I dreamed.
The colors were bright
and the focus just so.
Sharp for the things
and soft for persons
I had chosen to cast
into the forever world
in the cloister of my skull.
Little things mostly;
like a leaf in the spring
or a flower in the snow.
They held the peal
of the laughter
and the thunder alike,
safe for tomorrow's thinking.
There were some big things too,
that counted for more
to me than all the springs
that had passed behind me.
Soft eyed children,
a grandmother's smile,
the final passing of a friend.
The ones that seem most faded
are of yet a third kind.
The ones that tell the story
of a younger man,
in an alien land,
fighting a war without end
and not knowing why he does.
The sharpness is gone from
the friends by the wire
or on the berm;
the mountains beyond
and the stars that shone
in that foreign land
beyond a graying ocean.
Good friends, too.
Friends to die for and with,
or to die for you.
Nametags faded beyond recall.
The sound of their voices
covered by monsoon rains
or incoming rounds.
Even the places are going:
Kontum, Nha Trang, Pleiku,
are simple blurs on the paper
that used to hold so much more.
Even the tank has no corners
and the napalm burns only gray;
tracers leaving lines without color.
And what of Weet, and Sarge,
and all those who gave
this strange place
a reason, however cryptic,
for being at all?
Pain and love and hate
and fear are all but gone.
Only the strongest
have survived the years
intact, or I think they are.
The rawest hate and fear,
unmitigated by the lesser,
the gentler things
that made even these less horrible.
So I reach out,
with my feeble hands
and softly grab,
trying to save all of these
that I want to keep so badly.
The fading photographs
from my mind's own album.
A Comment or Two
These are some of my stories and musings on what happened nearly a
quarter century ago. I have written them down in the hope that, by
puttin' them on another medium, I can gain some kinda control over
'em. I don't think it worked. But it's done now, anyway. Maybe they
will help you. That would be fine by me. I wouldn't wish what
they've done for me on a dog.
They are in no special order. Oh, some that go together are placed
that way, but it's not strictly chronological. It's more like how I
remembered it. Don't sweat it, you'll figure it out. There just
isn't that much to get lost in.
I've tried to write these as I felt 'em at the time they occurred
more than for historical accuracy; and as I would tell 'em if
properly bribed with appropriate beverages at a local den of shady
repute. It is mostly disjointed stories of an unusual fourteen
months - my tour in Southeast Asia. There's some other stuff, too.
Things that tell a little about the guy who wrote these things,
both before and after. Some of it may pass for poetry. Soldiers and
poets are not far removed. Some of it is vulgar, profane and
obscene. All of it is irreverent. It was, after all, a vulgar,
profane, obscene, and irreverent war.
You know any other kinds?
Note: I'm a couple decades older as I write these than when I lived
them. It is not always easy to recall feelings. I have tried. Gook,
dink, slope, and a lot of the profanity are no longer a regular
part of my vocabulary. They are offensive, and I despise the words.
But they are part of what I was in the there-and-then. Leaving them
out would be the greatest of hypocrisies. I would rather be obscene
than a hypocrite.
Jargon
A soldier's world is filled with equipment and concepts peculiar to
his occupation and life style. There is no way to express the
thoughts and actions of the soldier I was then without that jargon.
Here is what I think you'll need:
'16, M-16 - standard military rifle
122 - enemy weapon, 122 mm rocket
123, C-123 - two engine cargo aircraft
130, C-130 - four engine cargo aircraft
20, 20 mm - mini-canon used on aircraft
.22 - 22 caliber weapon - light pistol
203, M-203 - 40 mm grenade launcher mounted under a rifle barrel
.45 - 45 caliber pistol
4.2 - "four deuce", 4.2 inch mortar
.50 - 50 caliber machine gun
.51 - enemy weapon, 51 caliber machine gun
'60, M-60 - 7.62 mm machine gun
7.62 mini - 7.62 mm mini-gun
80 - 80 mm mortar
AA - anti-aircraft
AK, AK-47 - enemy weapon, standard Warsaw Pact rifle
AO - acronym, Area of Operations
Arclight - B-52 strike
ARVN - acronym, Army of the Republic of Viet Nam
BDA - acronym, Bomb Damage Assessment
Berm - a defensive wall of earth
Bird - an aircraft, usually a helicopter
Black Bird - USAF aircraft for special operations, named for
black paint job
Bouncing betty - type of mine blown into the air before
detonation to increase casualties
Browning - a 9 mm pistol
Bru - a tribe of Montagnards, q.v.
Bunker - a protective shelter
C & C - Command and Control, see "Special Project"
CAR, CAR-15 - rifle, carbine version of the M-16
CCC, CCN, CCS - acronyms for military units, see "Special
Project"
Civvies - civilian attire
Claymore - a directional mine
Cobra - a military helicopter used as a gun platform
Conex - metal military container, large.
Cork - a drug to prevent defecation, used in the field with small
teams
Cover one's six - watch the rear
Covey - the name of the USAF detachment that flew our radio
coverage
Crud, the - various fungi and rashes common to soldiers in warm
climates
DEROS - acronym, Date of Expected Return from Overseas
Didi - Vietnamese, flee or leave rapidly
E & E - acronym, Escape and Evasion
Exfil - exfiltration, point of exit from AO
FAC - acronym, Forward Air Controller
Fast mover - a jet, usually an F-4
Firebase - a remote artillery position, usually quite isolated
Fire fan - the field of fire of a larger gun or mortar
First shirt - military slang for First Sergeant, usually the
highest enlisted grade in a company
FNG - acronym, F*cking New Guy
Grease - slang, to kill
Hillsboro - an air force command and control aircraft
Hootch - see "Hootch"
HQ - acronym, HeadQuarters
IA - acronym, Immediate Action
IG - acronym, Inspector General
Insert - insertion, point of entrance into AO
Intel - intelligence information
Jarai - a tribe of Montagnards, q.v.
K, klick - a kilometer, the U.S. military uses the metric system
Khaki - a sandish color, used in uniforms
KIA - acronym, Killed In Action
LTC - rank, Lieutenant Colonel
LZ - acronym, Landing Zone, a site for a helicopter to land
LZ watcher - an enemy soldier assigned to guard and report on
activities on an LZ
Medivac - medical evacuation, of injured personnel
Mess, messhall - a military dining facility
MIA - acronym, Missing In Action
Mike Force - an allied reaction team, usually larger than a
company
Mini-pounder - small radar transmitter user to mark locations on
the ground for radar-carrying aircraft
Montagnard - one of the indigenous hill people of Southeast Asia
Moonbeam - nighttime name of Hillsboro, q.v.
MOS - acronym, Military Occupational Specialty - one's job title
MPC - acronym, Military Payment Certificate, used in lieu of cash
MSG - rank, Master Sergeant
NCO - acronym, Non-Commissioned Officer
NVA - acronym, North Vietnamese Army
O-2 - a light observation aircraft
O2 and benedryl - oxygen and a strong antihistamine, for
hangovers
OAS - acronym, Organization of American States
OFM(cap) - Catholic religious order, Order of Friars Minor
(Capuchin)
OP - acronym, Observation Post
Otter - light observation aircraft, an O-1
P, piaster - monetary units of RVN
PH - acronym, Purple Heart, awarded for wounds received in action
Phantom - air force fighter aircraft, the F-4
Point, point man - the soldier who walks first in formation and
scouts the area ahead
POW - acronym, Prisoner Of War
Reckless - slang, a recoilless rifle, small artillery piece
RON - acronym, Remain OverNight, a nighttime position
RPD - enemy weapon, light squad machine gun
RT - acronym, Recon Team
RTO - acronym, Radio-Telephone Operator, the soldier who carries
the radio
RVN - acronym, Republic of Viet Nam
SEA - acronym, SouthEast Asia
SF - acronym, Special Forces
SFC - rank, Sergeant First Class
SFTG - acronym, Special Forces Training Group
SKS - enemy weapon, bolt action rifle
Slick - troop transport helicopter, UH-1
Slow mover - propeller driven air force fighter aircraft
Snake - slang, a Cobra helicopter
SOG - acronym, Special Operations Group, see "Special Project"
SOP - acronym, Standing Operating Procedures
SSG - rank, Staff Sergeant
Stabo rig - special web gear allowing the wearer to be picked up
by the harness
Straphang - operate with a team other than one's own
Tail - the soldier who walks last in formation and covers the
rear
TOC - acronym, Tactical Operations Center
TO&E, TOE - acronym, Table of Organization and Equipment, the way
a military unit is organized
Tracer - military round that leaves a visible trail as it travels
Tri-border - that area of SEA around the point where Viet Nam,
Cambodia and Laos meet
V Corps - "Five Corps", see "Special Project"
Ville - slang, village, particularly a Montagnard village
Watcher - see LZ watcher
White mouse - derogatory term for the national police of RVN
WP, willie pete - a white phosphorus round or grenade
'Yard - slang, Montagnard, q.v.
Zero week - an unassigned first week before the commencement of a
school, frequently spent on details
Prologue
At the ripe and wisdom-filled age of seventeen, I chose to join the
U.S. Army. Any number of reasons, I suppose. The two strongest ones
on my mind at the time were parental pressure and anger. Let's face
it, if you are seein' a young lady again, even younger than
yourself, who has already borne you a son, parents are not happy
campers or particularly easy to live with. And it is mid-February
1968 - THE Tet Offensive, and friends are dead or dyin'. Those two
factors complemented each other; and on Valentine's Day, 1968, I did
the deed. I somehow didn't picture that I would not arrive in
Southeast Asia until mid-year, 1971.
I did the usual routine. Basic training at Ft. Ord, CA. Advanced
Infantry Training at Camp Crockett, Ft. Gordon, GA. I'd already
decided to be Airborne Infantry (needed that extra $55 a month when
base pay for an E-1 was $89 a month), so next stop was Ft. Benning,
GA. And here, the short story of my advanced years got the surprise
insert.
To get out of work one day during "zero week," I took a test for
Special Forces (SF, Green Berets, Green Weenies, whatever). I wasn't
interested in any such thing, but it was better than another eight
hours at the riggers' shed. I promptly forgot about it during the
three grueling weeks under the Georgia summer sun in Jump School.
The day after I finished "jump week," I got orders for Ft. Bragg,
NC, and Special Forces Training Group (SFTG). Whaddahell! They
were nifty hats, so I went. Like I had a choice, of course.
I was on Smoke Bomb Hill, the home of Special Forces, for nine
months: Phase I training, MOS training (Morse code and radios, 05B),
and Phase III trainin'. Then they decided I was good for Phase IV
training - another month of seeing how far they could push you
before you broke. They pissed me off, and I didn't break. This was
an error to haunt me for many years. Like volunteering; it's one of
those things you don't do. I was young.
Anyway, somewhere in there I got married to the same woman as
mentioned above and had number-two son. I also listened to a lot of
old SF types and developed a hankerin' to wander and do some of that
off-the-wall stuff. So I took a short and reupped for six to get
assigned to Panama. More school! Three months in D.C. to learn
Spanish. A great tour, as I already spoke it fluently.
In November of 1969, I arrived at Ft. Gulick, Panama Canal Zone. Had
a blast, though that's not the point here. In '71, it was time; and
I volunteered for Viet Nam when the word came around some folk were
needed for the special projects. Back to another school for three
weeks at Bragg, again. By now I'm a young buck sergeant, have
everything a little more under control; and things flow better.
Tour the west coast kin, kiss the wife and son good-bye at LAX,
spend a couple days at Ft. Lewis, WA, and board a plane for some
damned place called "Cam Ranh Bay."
Y'know, we make a LOT of errors when we're young....
=====================================================================
Background
=====================================================================
Special Forces
Special Forces is one of the most misunderstood outfits the Army
ever had. Misunderstood by the public, the press, and even those who
wore the Green Beret. Not even the Army knew what they were for or
what to do with 'em. That didn't stop 'em, however, from doin' all
sorts of things to us.
Special Forces was created in 1952 as an option to problems like the
Czech uprisin' of that year. The concept was a series of small,
highly trained teams available to infiltrate into similar situations
in foreign countries to train, equip, advise, and, if necessary,
lead indigenous populations in the conduct of guerilla warfare.
While primarily envisioned as operatin' in wartime, as part of a
theater of operations includin' regular armed forces, the unspoken
option of use in non-wartime situations existed from the beginnin'.
Nearly all of the first batch of soldiers inducted into Special
Forces were Americans of recent Eastern European extraction, many of
'em born there before the Iron Curtain came down.
But that ideal survived only a couple of months. That same year,
somebody in the Pentagon figured that this mission made SF prime
candidates for counterinsurgency operations. And they sent the first
SF personnel to the far ends of the earth, to a place few Americans
knew, called Viet Nam. In less than a decade, the original mission
had slipped into second place, and the counterinsurgency role had
become primary. With the additional duties, SF expanded rapidly.
There are, after all, a lot of guerillas in the world. From the
first group in 1952, later designated the 10th SFG, they added the
1st in Okinawa, the 3rd, 4th, 6th and 7th at Ft. Bragg, and the 8th
in Panama. The 5th, of course, went to Viet Nam. The 10th, in
Europe, the 8th in Panama, and the 1st in Okinawa saw extensive use
in counter-guerilla warfare throughout the world. The others, and
the old-time members of the 10th, continued to train for the
original mission, never to be used.
The old TO&E consisted of a company with three "B" teams, each with
five "A" teams. The "A" team was (and is) the primary operational
level of SF. Each team is commanded by a Captain, XO a 1Lt, and ten
sergeants in five specialty groups - a backup in each slot;
operations and intelligence, weapons, communications, medicine, and
engineering, primarily demolitions. The organization and high levels
of trainin' and motivation made the A-Team very flexible, and it
assumed a wide variety of missions, far removed from the ideas of
the first organizers. And so it remains today.
One got into SF in my time by fulfillin' three requirements: passin'
a rigorous test, passin' through jump school to earn your
parachutist rating, and makin' it through the intense session with
SFTG on Smoke Bomb Hill at Ft. Bragg, N.C. I did these things,
though the nine months at Ft. Bragg was more than a little tough.
Still and all, I and a lot of others made it, and cast our fate with
this hodgepodge of duties and assignments. Not so sure if that's
good or bad. 'Course, this whole thin' wouldn't be here if it didn't
require a particular off-center set of mind to walk into this with
your eyes wide open.
We'd all "go anywhere, do anything, as long as we have our hats."
It was a secondary credo. And guerilla warfare sounds so romantic.
'Course, I've yet to meet a real guerilla....
But we also did lots of other things. In Latin America we did
trainin' and medical assistance missions. In Europe we worked with
NATO, and prepared to fight the red hordes. In Viet Nam we built the
region's third largest army out of Montagnards, Hmong, and the other
hill people of SEA. Out on the A-camps they fought a more or less
conventional war against Charlie and big brother Chuck. They were
good with the isolated nature of the long border. Let's face it, a
guy whose whole life is based on bein' allowed to jump into Hungary
and overthrow the government is not all with us, mentally. It is a
very special kind of madness. I know, I was mad too.
And because we were crazy enough to do it, and had some tentative
contact with the spooks from that "first mission", they found us
available to accept special operations no one else wanted. It was a
bad move. The trainin' wasn't really applicable.
But it made me what and who I am.
What's in a name?
September 1969 and I'm in D.C. finishin' language school for a
language I already speak. The wife and Mike Jr. have already taken
off for California, and I'm bachin' it in the barracks. Hey, a Spec.
4 doesn't have a lot of money, and D.C. is an expensive place, even
in '69. You do what you gotta do.
It's the last couple weeks of class, and everyone is pretty much on
cruise control. It's a twelve person class, and ten of us are bound
for 8th SFG in Panama. We hang out a lot after class, usually at
Louie's, about two blocks from the school. Little place with a
couple of pool tables run by a WWII Marine vet who buys nigh on to
every other round. Name was Louie, of course. Never knew the last
name. It didn't matter. Anyway, we hung there most evenings, playin'
pool and generally chillin' out.
One night we walk in and this group of construction dudes has the
tables and just about owns the place. We look at Louie, and he just
shrugs. He's gotta make some money, so we just pull up a booth and
get a round. They gotta leave sometime, y'know.
Only they don't. An hour later, it's beginnin' to look like they're
here for an evenin' of trouble. They've already started hasslin'
Louie. But they're still payin', so Louie puts up with it. We're in
uniform, and know what will happen if we try to intervene and send
'em on their way. None of us want delays in orders to Panama, so we
start to plan. This, of course, requires another round.
I've had too much, and I really wanna play some eight ball. Bill's
also had to much, so he's my volunteer. I grab Bill by the hand, and
we walk over to the nearest pool table and jump on it, kissin' and
rubbin' and really carryin' on. The construction guys can't believe
their eyes and start yellin'. Behind the bar, Louie just smiles.
This goes on for a couple minutes and the construction dudes stomp
out screamin' about fags and sh*t. Bill and I get up, I rack. The
place is ours again.
"Wild Bill" Wiegart, an old E-8 who was in school with us, looks up
at Louie with a big grin and says, "I'll buy the next one for the
Sweet Thing there, with the rack." Louie just loses it, and we fear
we're gonna hafta take him to the hospital.
You never know when a name'll stick. I was the "Sweet Thing" until I
left the Army in '75.
Jungle
Jungles are funny places. At least the ones in Panama are. The ones
in SEA might deserve another adjective. But I didn't see any serious
ones there. The Central Highlands is NOT jungle. And the ones out
west are not even in the same league.
But I spent some time in the woods in Panama, too. And elsewhere in
South America. The Amazon is an amazin' place, huge beyond belief.
The jungles in Panama were worse. Worst I ever saw. The Darien. That
part of Panama that stretches from the Canal to Columbia. Godawful
jungle. No trails, no people, few ground dwellin' animals of decent
size. Couldn't move. Terrain is too steep. I mean, you come
virtually straight up from a stream, there's a strin' of trees, and
you drop straight back down to another stream. You gotta like water.
You spend a lot of time in it.
You don't sleep on the ground there. Oh, it's not 'cause of the
critters, though that could certainly do it. Lots and lots of snakes
and creepy crawly monstrosities with claws and stingers and teeth.
But the main reason is the terrain - nothin' to lay flat on. You
carry a hammock. The Army called 'em "jungle hammocks" 'cause they
built in the 'squito netting. At least you can get horizontal. What
you do is get a couple three-foot sticks of around three-quarter
inch in diameter, run 'em through the spreaders in the ends, hang it
up, tie up the net and use your poncho to make a roof - kinda like
an A-frame with palm branches poked across from grommet to grommet.
You get so you can put the whole shebang up in under five minutes,
raw materials permittin'. And you always use your poncho liner. The
jungle gets cold at night - all the moisture still in the air.
Didn't think it would get cold like that....
But then there's the thorns. Lots of thorns. In the Darien,
everythin' has thorns. Everything. The grass has thorns - saw grass
is NOT nice. Palm fronds have thorns. Flowers have thorns. Many
trees have long needle-like thorns hangin' down all over the "bark."
Black palms. Berries have thorns. Not the little pathetic things
that wild black berries do, but the real "ah, sh*t!" kind. You
can't reach out and grab ANYTHING, 'cause you'll regret it. Too hot
durin' the day to wear any kind of gloves that would do any good.
Some guys wore 'em, anyway. Not me, I just tried not to touch
anything.
The biggest eye-opener was a stand of two-foot-plus diameter trees.
The ground was only about a forty-five degree slope, so we stopped
for a break and leaned against these big old hardwoods. For about
two seconds. They were covered with Hershey Kiss sized and shaped
thorns. Everythin' had thorns!
Well, of course, not everythin'. Just the vegetation. The animals
were all toxic, instead. Except for the local porcupine cousins.
They were both. Insects, snakes, lizards, frogs, rodents. Their
bites were all bad. Anythin' bit you, and you just swelled right on
up. If you lived. Which most of us did, whether we wanted to or not.
The Darien is not a good place to find out you are allergic to anti-
venom. Take my word for that, I know.
Sometimes the thorns and the toxins joined forces. Acacias. Base of
every thorn had an ant hole. Every ant was a devout human hater.
Worse when the tree died, too. Lean against it and it would crumble,
rainin' fire ants. Hated the damn things.
And noisy. Jungles are NOT quiet places. Monkeys scream, howl, bark.
Lizards whistle. Birds make every noise imaginable. Little rodents
can scream, too. Just like a wounded rabbit. Nasty. Big cats cough.
Everythin' rustles and scurries. The insects drone in unbelievable
numbers - unless you've been to the North Slope, then you believe.
Finally, there's the rain. You gotta love dry season, where it only
rains two or three times a week instead of the two or three times a
day. That's noisy too, but not toxic. But it does make movin' a real
bitch. Not a lot of thunder and lightnin'. The rain on your poncho
can be even louder, though. Forget about dry socks, or drawers, or
anythin'. Guns rust overnight. Radios short out without absolute
protection. Everythin' gets wet, especially you. Sometimes you
don't even bother with the ponchos. They don't work all that well,
anyway, in the heat.
Actually, I kinda liked the Central Highlands. There were flat spots
where nothin' had thorns or tried to eat you.
Coulda been worse....
Witness
The year is 1970. I'm stationed at Ft. Gulick in the Panama Canal
Zone. Nice place to be, all in all. Old Spanish forts still in ruins
from when the pirates got ticked off, outstandin' divin' waters, the
jungle, the canal - just tons of things to do, places to go, people
to meet. I spoke Latin American Spanish like a Cuban (the teacher
was, so what do you expect?), and the natives were friendly. It's an
accompanied tour, so my wife and my number two son are with me. (The
wife who "Dear John-ed" me in SEA.)
Spent less than half my tour actually in-country. Group was forever
and a day sendin' us off to exotic places to train, or do medical
aid, or just to get to know the terrain. This was a ball, and one of
the reasons I didn't make some of the classic "ugly-American" errors
in Viet Nam later. Made 'em in Latin America and got "larned purty
good." Anyway, one of those trip was to Honduras with the OAS.
You may recall the '68 "soccer war" between Salvador and Honduras.
Didn't last long, mostly 'cause neither side had a lot of money to
spend on it. The cause was basically surplus population in each
country kinda ignorin' the border when they built their new abodes.
That is a rough border to cover - jungle, hills, banditos.... So in
comes the OAS. (Locally, the OEA - Organizacion de los Estados
Americanos.) Modeled on border watches from the U.N. The U.S.
provided very few "observers," as we gringos are NOT tremendously
loved in Central America for some obscure reason. But only the U.S.
had the resources to provide helicopters and a radio network. These
came out of Panama. With 'em came pilots and flight crews for the
whirly birds and operators for the radios. Oh, officially I was a
"United States Counterpart," but it didn't fool anyone. I was there
to make commo - which I do pretty good.
The place I got sent was Nuevo Ocotepeque - called simply "Ocote" by
the citizens. It's in Honduras, just across the border from Metapan
in Salvador. Metapan was a military site, so the OAS station on the
other side was Chalatenango - "Chalate." None of these are what
could be called big cities. The air strip at Ocote was so small that
I had to go in by chopper - an Otter couldn't land there - and
that's small!
I was to live in a Capuchin friary. (OFM Cap.) The radio (AN/PRC 74
- a multi-banded larger siblin' to the PRC 25's and 77's used in
SEA) was in a converted counselin' room, and I had a bunk in an
unoccupied friar's room on the back side. Like most such, throughout
Latin America, the church sat on one side, the hacienda makin' the
other three sides for the patio. The patio was roughly square -
maybe fifty meters to a side. It was fully planted with jungle
flowers except for a small kitchen garden on the south side near the
back gate. In the center was a fair sized stone fountain. Straight
out of "Mission". It was splendid!
Outside of the friary, the town was a classic, dirt-poor Central
American town. There was a Viejo Ocotopeque, down by the river, but
it was just a few shacks and the old mission. A flood had gone
through around 1960, and only the church, on a very slight rise, had
survived. They'd rebuilt uphill about a kilometer. Hard to describe
if you've never been to such a place. Very few places in our country
know such poverty.
There had been grand plans once, and large boulevards had been
laid out. The curbs were even laid. But the city
manager had decamped with the money for paving, and there it still
sat. I made the rounds with the padres - the medical ones. No
doctors for a hundred miles, and the folk medicine men couldn't
carry the load. So, we Green Beanie types smuggled in drugs and
equipment, and the padres played doctor without a license. Wasn't
good, but better than nothin'.
Makin' the rounds there was like steppin' back in time. I won't go
into details of the poverty or the disease - they were at least as
bad as you imagine. What struck me as a soldier were other things.
The town's people were invisible when I wore a uniform - no one
anywhere. I started wearin' civvies, and bingo; there was a
population after all. Then I started noticin' other things. Long
rows of pocks in the walls at about four feet above ground level.
Many houses lookin' like they were hastily constructed in a crater.
Everyone flinched at loud noises. The place had, indeed, known
soldiers. I let my hair and beard grow.
The mission, of course, was on the town plaza. Well, it was supposed
to be a plaza, anyway. That money had gone with the town manager,
too. It was simply a raised area with some thirsty lookin' trees and
some scraggly lookin' native shrubs. Did have a couple benches in
the middle, and a flock of unhealthy lookin' pigeons, though. In
this "plaza," I met the Lord and was converted. Not what I'd
pictured for such a momentous occasion in my life. But what's one to
do? The time and choosin' are selected by other standards than mine,
I guess.
The mission, like many in Central America, was staffed by Norte
Americanos. The Capuchins were all from upstate New York. A bunch of
good joes, and that is the understatement of the year. They were
workin' missionaries, as likely to be found in a field with a plow
and jeans as in a cloister. Habit was for church - otherwise they
looked like an enlarged version of a local farmer. When I arrived,
there were four in residence. I was told that another, Fr. Mary
Francis (he had a "real" name, too, but I never knew it) was out on
"rounds" - visitin' on mule back the little hamlets and homesteads
scattered in the surroundin' hills. He came in three weeks later.
He wasn't a big man, maybe 5'9", 130 lbs or so. He was in his
sixties, had arthritis and was in generally poor health. But he'd
been ridin' the circuit, on a mule. And when the mule couldn't climb
any more, he got off and lead it through the nasty stuff. I watched
him real closely - had to be insane, don't you know?
The day after he got back and mornin' prayers were said and
breakfast eaten, he went to the plaza. The window of the radio room
looked out that way, and it all looked wrong. Must have taken me
half and hour of starin' to figure it out. He was feedin' the
pigeons. Nothin' earth-shakin' about that, but you have to remember
where and when we are. These pigeons were survivors. They did NOT go
near people - EVER! First, no one spent food on 'em. Second, anytime
some one tried, it was a trap and they were destined for the
stewpot. They avoided people like the plague - livin' off food from
the wild. But Fr. Mary was feedin' the pigeons. And they were
swarmin' all over him, sittin' on his head, his shoulders, his arms.
I was starin' for half an hour before I realized I was starin' at an
animated picture of St. Francis. Scared the hell out of me.
And then the children came. I don't know where they came from; I'd
never seen so many in town before. The pigeons stayed. And he fed
the children too. From somewhere in his brown robe came bread and
cheese. They laughed and shouted and romped and hugged him. All of
'em together - priest and children and birds. I didn't know what to
think. Look, I'm a pragmatist, okay? I only believe that which I can
touch, see, feel, taste, weigh and measure. But I see it.
He is a magnet, and I am a piece of iron. I sign off the net and
walk across the dirt swath that passes for a street. I know that
I'll spoil everything, but I HAVE to go. Iron has no choice. I have
no choice. They do not go. I am in uniform with a gun on my belt,
and the children, the birds and the padre all welcome me like I'd
been with 'em just yesterday. We share bread and cheese - and a can
of fruit cocktail I had grabbed and put in a pocket. The plaza is
beautiful today. The trees are lush and heavy with leaves, the
shrubs are in bloom. They aren't really, of course - but somehow
they are. I know the symptoms now, in retrospect, though I didn't
know 'em then. I had fallen hopelessly in love with the man. We all
had - the children, the pigeons and me. He shone with the light that
such of women and men chosen of God alone can carry. I am in love.
It does not last forever. Duties call to all of us - children and
pigeons and Father Mary and me. We meet again many times, and it is
never like this again. Oh, the birds still mob him, and the children
romp, but it changes. I see the poverty, the squalor, the patches
sewn in his robe, the sores on the children's faces. But the love
remained. Maybe, even, it grew. I spoke with the friar superior. We
started lessons the next Saturday, and I was baptized in the chapel
at Ft. Davis in Panama two months later. Fr. Mary was back out on
the circuit when my relief arrived. I never saw him again. Or
rather, perhaps, I have yet to stop seein' him. He died while I was
in SEA. There was a little mission across the creek on the north
side of the CCC camp in Kontum. Van Kaufman and I would go to mass
there every Sunday we were in-camp. Only Americans in the crowd. We
would go to confession to a priest who spoke no English, and we
received reconciliation in Vietnamese, which we did not speak.
Translator not necessary. The priest, a Vietnamese missionary to the
'yards, knew everythin' he needed, I expect.
I did not cry for Fr. Mary when Fr. Rod (the friar superior) wrote
me. But it wasn't because I couldn't. I figure he just started one
more circuit ride. I keep hopin' his mule can make it up the hill
I'm on. Be nice to sit in the plaza again with the pigeons, the
padre, and maybe my sons and you and all the others.
Did I tell you it had roses in it once?
_________________________________________________________________
I'm not that much of a story teller, really - this one always seems
to tell itself. I'm not much of a bible thumper either; my faith is
kinda a private one. This, however, is different. Here I bear
witness that God's glory is still upon the earth, in the most
obscure of places; and the saints are alive and well. My only
proselytizin'.
(Really.... Roses! I can still smell 'em.)
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who also experienced loss II IIXXXXXXXXX XXX
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rejection and betrayal, I IXXXXXXXXX
alienation and estrangement, I IXXXX XX
isolation and withdrawal. II IIXXXX
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lied about and imprisoned; I
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"And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age"
Matthew 28:20
Locker, Utility
His name doesn't really matter. It was twenty-four years ago, and I
guess bygones should be left as bygones. He was a young Signal Corps
second looie fresh outta Special Warfare School at Bragg, and that
should be ID enough. Oh yeah, he was also VMI. With the big ring.
The kind a matchin' ego buys....
They assigned him to our A-team in Panama. We were fresh outta
officers, and that couldn't be let ride. Now, all young second
looies are hell-bent-for-leather to set the Army on fire with their
hard work and innovative ideas, but he was worse than the usual lot.
He flat sneaked up on us. He spent the first week bein' pretty quiet
and bendin' the manuals, contingency plans, and operation profiles.
We were kinda gettin' our hopes up that we'd gotten a good one who
was there to learn the way we did things. No such luck.
After that week, see, he knew it all. Indeed, he knew better.
Especially about communications to and from 'denied areas.' Which
meant that I caught it worse than the others, bein' senior commo man
and all. Special Forces tactical doctrine obviously was out-dated
and worthless. And there wasn't no tellin' him any different. I mean
what did Marion, Mao, and Che know that he didn't? A boy genius in
our midst, and he was gonna save Special Forces from itself. And he
was startin' with us.
So we run a few ops his way, that bein' the normal method of gettin'
their attention. We got creamed, of course. ASA had us nailed the
first night in, and we got captured by stumblers twice. But to him,
we had just executed poorly, the plans bein' perfect. Well, this can
be a little hard on an A-team's pride, bein' captured by straight-
leg infantry so new they didn't know the jungle from a fruit stand.
And we started to get a little disenchanted with the young man. Ah
hell, we were damned pissed!
So now we get a real serious trainin' op. We're gonna run as the
aggressors against a company of Fleet Marine in Jungle Warfare
School. It's not bad duty, a day job mostly. But the looie wants to
do things his way again. This is pretty straight forward infantry
stuff, but we're gonna do it with a signal twist ala inexperience.
Uh huh, right.
He plans his little operations, and even the new Spec. 4 medic just
outta Training Group can see we're gonna get cremated again. We try
very hard to explain this to him in words of two syllables and less,
but he just decides he gives the orders around here, and this is the
way it's gonna be.
Bill looks at Dutch. Dutch looks at Frank. Frank looks at me. I look
at Neal. Neal looks back at Bill. That's the senior guys in each of
the MOSs. It's agreed without so much as a word. Frank, the senior
medic, saunters over to the vacant team leader's locker and opens
the door. The rest of us walk over, grab the 2Lt. and stuff him in.
Bill, as the senior, the team sergeant, does the honor and puts the
D-ring snaplink through the hasp. There's only wire mesh separatin'
us from the team next door, and Bill signals the team sergeant over
there in case there's a fire or somethin' to let him out. We grab
our gear, and go kick some serious tail on a Marine Platoon. Our
turf, it would've been hard to lose. Unless that lieutenant had been
there...again.
We come back about eight hours later and let the poor fooker outta
the locker. He's so flustered that we put him in and that no one let
him out, he just turns beet red and can't say a damn thin'. Also, he
smells a little ripe, so we don't push him to stay and chat, anyway.
Shouldn't oughta drink so much coffee and eat so much chili, I
suppose.
Anyway, he goes stompin' down the hall to B-team and corners the
Major. This doesn't please the Major none too much, as he has a
sensitive nose. But he's only a field grade, and he's gotta listen
to the man. We can hear it clear down in the team room, the whinin'
and yellin' is so loud. Bill is lookin' a little sheepish, but
ready to take the heat. Hell, I guess we all are. And happy to do
so. Whaddahell....
Then it comes, the ell tee has run down in tears and gasps. We feel
little twinges - but only little ones. The Major's thickly accented,
hispanic voice bites through, "You meen to tell mee loo-tin-ant that
you have so leettle control over yourself that you've been sittin'
in your own sheet all day and have the nerve to come complain to ME!
Geet out of my offeece! And go take a shower, forgodsake!"
The Signal Corps second looie was never seen again. Some signal
outfit in CONUS gained, I heard.
A week later we get Dai uy Simmons as new team leader, and he's
happy to be saved from a staff job at Group HQ. He wasn't quite so
happy with the still lingerin' odor of his locker. Well...no plan is
perfect. A month later we get a new, young 2Lt named Olsen. They
both bought it on the strip at Kontum a couple years later. Two of
the finest officers I ever knew. Two of the finest men, period!
That's three to one for good officers over bad. As any old NCO will
tell you, we done okay on that tour. The Major got a new, teak chess
set and matchin' board for Christmas. Could lick any of us with one
leaf tied behind his back, anyway. Dai uy and Olsen got the respect
they earned, and a place of honor on The Wall. I don't like to think
on the career of the other.
They don't call 'em "Locker, Utility" for nothin'.
Elephant
Americans went to Viet Nam for any number of reasons. Not the
country, America. Nobody knows for sure why America went to war in
that place, so far from her own shores. Oh, I know the reasons given
as well as you do, maybe even better. But I don't believe a single
one of 'em. It's not easy to believe any combination of 'em, though
the truth is probably in there, somewhere, under the rhetoric and
the flippancy. But this isn't about a nation, it's about people. Men
and women went to Viet Nam, not any damned nation. Just us folk.
The draftees went because they had to. They weren't given a choice,
other than Canada or some third world nation. Not real alternatives,
those. Not for someone used to the American lifestyle, American
freedom. So they went to SEA. Most of 'em came back. Not all.
The volunteers were another matter. Some went for patriotism, our
country was at war. Some went because, whether the war was right or
not, goin' was "the right thin' to do." Some went from parental
pressure, some to get out of jail, some to get away from an
impossible situation at home, some for adventure, some because of
boredom. Some went simply to die, and suicide seemed too hard. Some
went to help their fellow Americans who were already there or who
wouldn't be comin' home. Revenge and racial hatred figure in the
reasons, too. Name a reason, and somebody probably went because of
it.
I'm not positive now, all these years later, why I went to Viet Nam.
Oh, I joined the Army because homelife was godawful; and I wanted
revenge for friends and classmates lost in Tet of 1968. But, before
I went, I had been in for three years; and this wasn't good enough
for me, anymore. My home life was kinda rocky, since I'd found out
the wife had been sleepin' with a teammate while I was in Nicaragua,
but it looked salvageable. I was makin' rank and goin' someplace,
though I'd yet to figure out exactly where. Then I just up and
decided to go to Nam.
I tend to think it was the old Civil War quote; from whom, I don't
remember now. "They have seen the elephant, and they will never be
the same." Or words to that effect, anyway. Every soldier knows it.
I knew it. It meant somethin' to all the men with whom I'd served
who had been there. It meant somethin' to those who hadn't been. It
meant somethin' to me.
I wanted to test my nerve, to discover if those things between my
legs were real and meant anythin'. I found out about nerves. And I
found that the things between my legs just represent an increase in
target area. I wanted to see the elephant. Well, I saw it. It is
big, ugly, gray, mean, and a killer. But I went and saw it. My
nerves turned to mush and the things between my legs almost got
blown off. Not exactly what I expected.
Oh, I'm glad I went to see the elephant.
But now I can't forget.
Ever.
=====================================================================
Middle Distance
=====================================================================
Nhe Trang
It's a long flight from McChord AFB in Washington State to Cam Ranh
Bay. We make a stop in Alaska to top off the fuel tanks, and another
somewhere else, don't remember now - just remember a second stop.
Good old DC-10. Meals in a box. The steward staff tries, but no one
really seems all that happy to be on this flight. I got a window,
but the young E-3 next to me keeps tryin' to look out, so I swap
with him. The Pacific Ocean is kinda big and boring, anyway. I'm in
jungle fatigues with a duffle in the hold. I am not comfortable
flyin'. Can't sleep too well while movin'. Never could, still hardly
ever do. It's a long flight....
Land in Cam Ranh okay. Nobody shoots at us, and that's fine by me.
Haven't got a gun, y'see. Haven't got sh*t. This is unpleasant. Been
in thirty foreign countries already. Got shot at in a couple of 'em.
Don't like bein' unarmed. Expect 'em to rectify it.
Gettin' off the plane is interestin'. Mosta the guys melt upon
steppin' on the roll-up staircase. Musta been what I looked like
when I arrived in Panama a few years back. It doesn't hit me too
hard, I was only stateside for a couple months. One Colonel in
greens is exposed to the error of his ways. He's soaked to the skin
before they take him away with the rest of the officers.
Run us over to some barracks for some prelim paperwork. Then they
tell us we gonna be there for a couple days. A couple DAYS? Sh*t! I
ask about firearms. Young buck sergeant (like me) says no sweat, you
don't need it. Okay, but what kinda rock did this dude crawl out
from underneath of?
Get together with some old SF types and we begin to wrangle for a
ride to anywhere. Crusty old MSG wanders off to an office and comes
back, smilin'. Nha Trang's gonna send us a truck. It's not all that
far, he says. Country's mostly safe. Sh*t. Thanks, Top! Ride a truck
for fifty, sixty miles in a hostile country unarmed. Sure, it's
okay. Didn't wanna go home, anyway. Sh*t. Guess it's better than
stayin' here, though.
A couple jeeps with M-60s and a deuce and a half roll up a few hours
later. We haul out before they notice we're leavin'. They brought
some heavy metal! I get to hold my first CAR-15, only seen 'em,
before. Lock and load, and roll north. Two jeeps and the truck.
Fifteen dudes in the truck. Top's down and it's rainin' like all
hell. Don't care. Hey, I'm from Panama. Weather's okay, country
looks like I can handle it. Maybe not a cakewalk, but I'm gonna be
okay.
Lotsa check points, mostly ARVN. They don't look like really sharp
troops, but it's hard to look sharp drenched and lookin' for cover.
Don't see anyone in black PJ's, nobody shoots at us, and it's a
pretty uneventful trip. This is good. By now, I'm one pooped pup.
We get to Nha Trang in one piece. Check in, and get assigned to two-
man rooms. Everybody heads for chow. 'Cept me. I stumble to my
assigned room and manage to low crawl into the rack. Don't remember
anythin' from the time we signed the roster till the next mornin'.
Not sure I got to the rack on my own. Was there in the mornin'
though, and that's all that mattered.
Go to mess and get greasy eggs, somethin' that was once ham, and
some not too bad orange juice. Nothin' to do today, leave for Kontum
in the mornin'.
"Why don't we go swimmin'?"
I think about the offer. "You got a secured area on the river?"
"Nope, the pool."
"The pool? The POOL!?? You gots to be sh*ttin' me."
"Nope, here's some trunks."
Go out back. They got a fookin' swimmin' pool! Concrete and tile.
Life guard. I walk around the compound. Curtains in the windows.
Grass is mowed. Mowed! The parkin' lot (yeah!) has gravel and
stripes - names on some of the slots. The berm has poured concrete
bunkers and is painted white. Painted white? The doors in the
buildin' have signs on 'em. They look like real oak. Go to my room
to change. Yep, curtains there, too. And my locker is custom made in
some kinda wood. Skirts on the bed. Maid service. Sheee***t....
I muse as I go swimmin' my laps. I'm havin' a severe case of culture
shock. That's funny, I thought this was a war zone. This ain't gonna
be a bad tour. Bound to be better at my final station....
Okay, I was young and impressionable....
Kontum
Been at Nha Trang a whole day. Not a bad place. But, as a buck
sergeant, I seemed to be the lowest rankin' critter in the universe.
This is NOT good, and I'm interested in gettin' to Kontum. Hell,
this place has a swimmin' pool. Kontum can't be all that bad....
Next mornin', we get driven to the strip. Big place. Fulla all sorts
of aircraft. We drive off in some godforsaken corner and find the
Black Birds. Six of us goin' to Kontum. One old geezer, musta been
thirty, tells us it's a nice place. He's goin' to the Mike Force
compound on the other side of town from our compound. I ask about
swimmin' pools. He laughs and laughs and laughs. I begin to re-
evaluate my previous position. And they take our guns back. No
sweat, they'll give us new ones upon arrival. Okay, got no gun ports
on a 123, anyway.
Load up. I been on C-130 Black Birds in Panama. I know enough not to
go liftin' the curtains up front. Tell the other newbies that.
Don't wanna loose new friends too fast. Long wait in jump seats, and
we finally get to take off. Windows are kinda small, but we glue
ourselves to 'em and rotate turns. 'Cept for the old geezer, he
grabs some shut-eye. Wish I could. We fly.
Ten minutes out, the loadmaster tells us they ain't gonna be down
for long, and we're gonna hafta jump off the tailgate real smart-
like unless we wanna stay on the plane.
"Why?"
"'Cause otherwise we gonna get hit by rockets. Rocket City, ain't
you heard?"
Sh*t! I do not take this as a good sign. Okay, though. He has
inspired us to be prepared to un*ss this bird with rapidity. Single
guy ain't nothin' to waste a rocket on, so it's better than stayin'
aboard. Five minutes out, and I start to realize this IS a war zone.
Too late to un-volunteer? Yep. Damn!
We hit the strip hard and fast. Rough landin'. Seem to be movin'
kinda fast. Never did really get used to C-123's. The tail drops as
we begin to turn. We head for the gate. I'm gonna be first one off
and movin' away from this thin' as fast as I can. I'm not, though.
Now wheredahell did that old geezer come from? Don't care. Follow
that dude! I see he's headin' for a bunker. I also begin to realize
I see no one on the strip. Sh*t! Pick up the pace and dive for the
bunker. The 123 is just barely airborne when the first rocket hits.
I hear my first 122.
Phwip phwip phwip *)BOOM(*.
Two more before they stop. Don't hit nothin'. 'Cept my nerves.
Welcome to Kontum, RVN. I only learn later that there's a lot of
Rocket Cities in Viet Nam. If I'd known then, I'd've been lookin'
for a ride home.
We stick our heads back outta the bunker. Strip repair crew is out
and movin' already. A black painted jeep and a three-quarter-ton
wait about fifty meters away. A bored lookin' guy waves us over. The
other driver is a little sawed-off runt, with a flat nose and dark
brown skin. I met my first Montagnard.
He says, "CCC?" We say yeah. He got out and threw each of us a CAR-
15. Then he threw us a couple magazines. We locked and loaded
without askin'. The bored lookin' dude took the old geezer and left
in the jeep.
The 'yard, in perfect English, says, "Get on up, *ssholes, we gotta
get home for dinner."
Sh*t! I'd met my first wise-*ssed 'yard. But, since he was startin'
the truck and puttin' it in gear, we got on without arguin' a whole
bunch.
No top on this one either. I begin to suspect nobody puts tops on
vehicles in SEA. I'm wrong, but it is fairly common. Troops are
gonna get wet, what's the use in coverin' em? Equipment gets cover.
We drive through downtown Kontum. I meet my first White Mice, see my
first Vietnamese city, see too many ARVN screwin' off. Okay, it's
not all that different than I'd been told. We keep on goin'. Roll
on out the south side on the road to Pleiku. I look at the 'yard
driver and ask how far. He points at the low ridge line ahead. I see
a camp nestled along the top, huggin' it real tight. Okay, not far.
Maybe a klick. Tanks along the road, a check point at which we don't
stop, and nobody looks askance. Hhhhhmmm... I'd heard that CCC was
a privileged group. Never did have to stop at any check point when
in one of our own vehicles.
Get up the hill after crossin' the river and find this route runs
right through the middle of the fookin' compound! A major highway
through a defensive perimeter? Who designed this thing, anyway? And
it ain't Nha Trang. Raw sandbags and wood, everywhere. Mud and
puddles, everywhere. Somebody had obviously had a sale on concertina
and claymores, too. Damn! Really wasn't a swimmin, pool, was there?
We pull in on the west side in front of a captured .51 cal. rigged
for anti-aircraft. On the base is a crude plaque dedicatin' it to
Montagnard KIA. Yep, this was the right place. I think we found the
war. The 'yard, who turns out to be the Recon Company translator,
tells us to get out. While we do so, he calls out in some 'yard
dialect. A dude in a beret with a CAR-15 strung over his shoulder,
carryin' an umbrella like an English gentleman, saunters over. This
guy is outta a cartoon, and that's for sure. He's got no rank
insignia, so we just wait. Me and three other buck sergeants and a
Spec. 4.
He says "Hi, I'm Joe, which one's the Sweet Thing?"
Oh sh*t! My name got here first. I hesitantly own up. He looks at me
like an auctioneer sizin' up his sale and points the others at a
buildin' up north and says Security Company's thata way. Not wantin'
any part of this loon, they take off.
He says come on, and I do. We go inside the building, which turns
out to be Recon Company HQ. Two rooms. The outer looks like a day
room, pictures and a pool table. The pool table has apparently taken
a couple direct hits, and I don't see a lot of hope in playin' on
it. Shame, I'm not too bad with a cue. We go into the other room and
it's a small, efficient office.
He sticks out a hand and says, "Joe Stevens."
I take it slowly and say, "Mike McCombs."
Joe Stevens. MISTER RECON! THE Joe Stevens! Sh*t! And I thought he
was some kinda jerk. Sh*t! He knew my handle from elsewhere. Sh*t!
Might prove to be a long tour! Sh*t! He brings out the paper work
and I sign in. He says to have a sit and hang loose, Doc Thomas will
be right over. I'd heard of Doc, too. Real *sshole, I'd been told.
Went sour in his second tour. On his third, now. They said no one
stateside wanted him back. Ever. Okaaaaaay. Joe leaves. I wait.
About five minutes and Doc walks in. About my height, but skinny as
a rake handle. Face that could kill at twenty-five meters. I've met
the kind before. Can't show any weakness or he'll eat you. Okay, I'm
pretty good at bluffing, we'll see. He smiles. Oh f*ckinsh*t! Man,
I just got here! Sh*t!
He says, "Welcome, I'm Doc."
I say, "Thanks, I'm Mike, Top."
"Good to have you, got a job for you already."
Oh sh*t! "Sure, whatcha got in mind, Top?"
"RT Michigan needs a leader, you ready to run a team?"
F*ck, I just got here, man! Run a team of 'yards in the woods? You
gotta be sh*ttin' me. Fake it. "Okay, what first?"
He calls in a 'yard who takes me to the RT Michigan team house. Says
any old bunk'll do, it's vacant at the time. I figure they musta
DEROSed, three empty bunks. Okay, I choose one and throw my duffle
in a locker. Follow the 'yard to the supply shack. Get my basic
load, plus a CAR-15 that's not a loaner. Takes two trips to get it
all to the room. Sit down and contemplate the vagaries of military
assignments. Momma said there'd be days like this. Damn know-it-all.
Ten minutes of relaxation and there's a knock at the door. Two
'yards. The first one gives his name and introduces the other one. I
don't remember either one. The first one says the other one needs
leave 'cause his mother died. Okay, we're gonna play games right up
front. Not even this FNG was gonna buy this one. And besides, how
the hell they know someone's here already, ferchr*stsake? Let's go
to your bunks, I say. And they lead off. Short walk to the 'yard
barracks. I figure there's gotta be a team sergeant or some such,
and I can ask. We walk in and there's only two occupied bunks.
Their's. I begin to smell a rat. I ask. Yep, team didn't come back
last week. They didn't go 'cause it was only an eight man mission,
and they were junior. I'm startin' to get pissed. Doc's f*ckin' with
me already. Man, I just got here! Sh*t! F*ck! F*CK! Dead man's
team....
Back down to Recon HQ. Find the company clerk. Find the forms. Put
'em both on leave for two weeks. Don't care if anybody died or not.
I need time to regroup. F*ckit! Rustle up the guy with the money,
get 'em paid and out the gate. They figured they fooled me. Troops
are all the same, nationality irrelevant. Had found that out in
Brazil. F*ck that, too! Doc's gone for the day. Okay, *sshole, we'll
get it straight tomorrow. I go back out. There's Joe. Okay, I'll
deal with him first.
He's headin' for the mess. "He give you a team? Which one?"
"RT Michigan."
Joe frowns. Big frown. Okay, he didn't know.
"Come have a bite with me."
Okay, we go eat, and I tell him what I've done and why.
He smiles. "Okay, you don't sweat it. Come with me, I'll introduce
you around."
I begin to suspect Doc might be alone, here.
Had a damn good evenin'. Meet a bunch of crazy SOBs who will become
my family and my unit in short order. This place was gonna be all
right. Damn straight!
Still lookin' to get Doc.
Special Project
The program was, in general, referred to as "Command & Control,"
which was a total misnomer. It didn't command or control anything,
except under some very unusual conditions, which I'll mention later.
But C & C was the name. Actually, there was almost never cause to
refer to the whole program, at least not at my level. There was CCN,
CCC, and CCS, and that was enough; north, central and south - Da
Nang, Kontum, and Ban Me Thuot.
The program was launched in the early '60s by MACV SOG to provide
"strategic intelligence," the kind that went in front of the
president's briefer every mornin'. We worked in what we
euphemistically called "V Corps." These are the areas outside of the
four "corps areas" of the then-RVN. CCN ran north and west - North
Viet Nam and northern and central Laos. CCC ran southern Laos and
parts of Cambodia. CCS ran the rest of Cambodia. We also ran "risky"
areas in-country - the Tri-borders, the Cobrahead, and the Ashau
("Ah sh*t!" or "THE") Valley. Basically, we ran anythin' on, near,
or beyond the borders. That's why it was "strategic recon." It was
the sort of information that campaigns were based on, rather than
battles. The intelligence that guided the "Cambodian Incursion" was
largely gathered by CCS and CCC. The original intel came from the
USAF photo recons and "spook" sources - but it was the guys in funky
green that went and got the details for what unit was to go where
and what they were to do upon arrival. Air doesn't give you that
kind of data. And the Army brass, in general, has grave doubts about
"spook" data. Who can blame 'em? "Magic" has a bad reputation....
The Cambodian incursion was before my time, but I saw the photos.
Took some just like 'em later. Lot of guys died for very damn little
noticeable change in that campaign. But, I digress....
We also did other things that required our particular structure and
skills. BDAs on the ground. Again, photos and pilot perceptions
don't tell the whole story. Also did downed-pilot operations,
prisoner snatches, special types of interdictions, and preparation
for never-executed POW rescue operations. (Spent three weeks gettin'
ready for one once, only to have CCN bring back word they'd moved -
DAMN!) That lot was our venue - though the last was a mismatch of
unit and operation. They did know we could keep ourselves secretive,
and I think that's why we got the call. Everyone in camp wanted in
on those. But they never flew for real while I was in-country.
Odd list of duties, I admit. But, with the exception of the POW
rescue operations, they fit us. In order to do what we were supposed
to do in intel-gathering, we ran in VERY small units. I saw two-man
ops and eighteen-man ops. The average was six: two Americans and
four Montagnards. Very well paid 'yards, I might add. These were the
cream of an excellent crop. There is no way I can put into words how
good they were, how much we owed 'em, and how little we left 'em.
(Sorry, digressin' again. What we left behind gets to me sometimes.)
At any rate, I "know" of one-man ops, too. Losses were too high, we
gave 'em up.
The teams went lightly armed, heavily supplied. The basic idea was
that anythin' too large called attention to itself. A small team
could, hopefully, get in and out unobserved, bringin' back high
quality, timely intelligence. It worked. Got photos to prove it.
Hangin' on the Recon Company wall at CCC was a picture of an NVA
regiment on parade; dress right dress, eyes front, passin' in
review. Didn't take that one, just saw it there. Taken in THE
Valley, Tet 1968. Scare the hell out of you if you are sane. We
weren't; one-upmanship was the name of the game. That size team also
fulfilled the requirements of BDAs and the other things I mentioned
before. Worked okay, though we didn't save many pilots, and BDAs
were NOT popular assignments. It's amazin' how much activity there
can be in an area only fifteen minutes after a B-52 strike. It is
NOT an anti-personnel weapon, and that's a fact.
The heart of any of the three units was Recon Company - the guys
with the sleepy look who don't smell so good. Support forces were
there as well, of course. Security companies, mess, supply, brass,
and so on, existed on each compound. The compounds of all three were
classified in and of themselves. Nobody got in, unless we were in
the mood or orders came down from way up the line. It is nice to
tell the IG where to go. On the flip side, no stateside
entertainment on-site. We had to go elsewhere. In our case, to the
air base at Pleiku. Only performer we had on the compound while I
was there was Maggie, Martha Raye. LTC Martha Raye, USA Nurses
Corps, in case you didn't know. She earned her leaves in WWII and
Korea. She could go anywhere any guy with a green buffer rag was, no
questions asked. She had one, too. Wasn't official, but she had the
whole war suit: patch, jump boots, the whole ball of wax. Went
through jump school in Thailand to make it official. She was one of
us, and we all loved her....
So far, so good. Nothin' one didn't know had to have taken place,
even if one didn't know the details. It gets worse from here....
First, military rank meant nothin' within Recon Company. Position
mattered. The Recon Team leader ("one zero") ran the team. It was
not uncommon to have a SSG as one zero, SFC as one one and a 1LT as
the one two. Nobody complained. The "company commander" was an old
MSG/E-8 while I was there. I'm not sure an officer ever occupied the
position. C & C always was an NCO's domain.
Second, in the field we didn't wear uniforms - at least, not
American ones, sometimes NVA ones. Weapons were a mixed lot -
Soviet, French, British, American, you name it. I carried an RPD - a
Chinese made, Warsaw Pact, squad light machine gun. Better than an
M-60 in my opinion, certainly a LOT lighter, a critical criteria.
American was okay, as there was so much combat loss in Viet Nam that
it wasn't all that unusual to see NVA with American weapons.
Clothing was modified foreign jungle fatigues, or local if the
American was small enough. Mine were French, customized to my
satisfaction. My pack was local, web gear was British (except for
the stabo-rig, which was NATO standard, and American), food local,
made to our specs. The idea was to be unobtrusive, mess with their
minds, and provide "plausible deniability." We knew that there were
teams of "unknowns" in Southeast Asia, and we never figured out who
they were. The NVA must have known it too. (To some other units, we
were probably the "unknowns," which gives food for thought.) Also,
it could have been embarrassin' for the U.S. to admit it had ground
troops in "V Corps." Anyway, that's the way we did it. Others did
carry American equipment, it bein' acceptable because of the combat
losses. Our cameras were Pentax half-frames. Not the best, but we
had a good darkroom. They were rugged enough for what we were doin',
and that was the ticket. Don't think a big fancy Nikon would have
cut it. We got pretty good at drawin' maps, too. The ones the U.S.
had were NOT good once you got away from the coast. Fortunately,
pilots seem to always know where they are, so we could always back
track from the exfil point.
In addition to gatherin' pretty pictures, we always had somethin' or
the other else to do while in a "hole." (A "hole" is either an LZ or
an AO, usually 6K by 6K, dependin' upon context.) A popular pastime
was puttin' out NVA ammo boxes (they come in peel-open galvanized
tin boxes, real strange to an American) that had one in every thirty
rounds packed with petin instead of gunpowder. You will hear some
Nam Vets mention that they had instructions NOT to use captured
ammunition. This is one of the reasons why. Low casualty production
rate, but if you're in the area anyway.... Also, we placed space-
age bugs and some other things far less pleasant. That's the sleazy
side of the job - the price you pay for 'em lettin' you do the fun
stuff.
The fun stuff was gettin' as much as you could without gettin'
caught. The later bein' the "prime directive." I guess I don't have
to tell you that if we ran into anyone, they outnumbered us. We
tried not to get found. We would walk an extra twenty klicks rather
than set down too close to final objective. Doesn't always work, of
course. Sometimes you get caught. Some teams never came back. The
Lord alone knows what became of 'em. Just one day, no more radio
checks. Recon Team Michigan failed to come back just before I got to
Kontum. Not a distress call, not a peep was heard. Not unlike a
submarine, just disappeared from the face of the earth. We were very
careful. We also had a high rate of turnover. Lost most after the
first mission. "They" say that if you lasted through five, odds were
in your favor. "They," however, were not to be trusted....
That's a touch of what C & C was about. I know some of it is pretty
hard to believe, it was not the "Nam Norm". But it is true. It is
one of the reasons there are SF-specific vet groups. They know, and
accept it as a matter of course. I did too, until I talked to a
group of vets in Massachusetts in 1974. Got labeled the local
equivalent of a "damned liar" in thirty seconds flat. Wasn't quite
that polite a phrase, either. Fortunately, I was the more sober, and
got out in one piece. I went back and talked to some of my friends
in SF. The same had happened to 'em, too. Classification, it seems,
has its downside. Like I said to start with, low PR budget. I don't
talk about it much these days.
Oh, yeah, the time we really got to "command & control." When we had
GOOD intel, and knew it, we'd radio that fact in via "Covey."
(Usually an O-2 that could be mistaken for flyin' recon, that was
our radio relay.) If we got into trouble on the way out with that
intel, we got MASSIVE support. Team leader became "AGC", Allied
Ground Commander, for the AO in question. This allowed diversion of
aircraft, ground troops or virtually ANYTHING else to get the stuff
out, up to and includin' diversion of B-52 strikes. We did NOT get
this support unless we had declared in advance we were "loaded." It
is not pleasant for a lowly E-5 to assume this position. But someone
"upstairs" always wanted the intel real bad. Some got a high on it,
too. It takes all kinds, they say....
Montagnard
"Montagnard." The word sounds funny to me. It always has. From the
first mention of the word, back in SFTG at Ft. Bragg, it was
"'yard," and it always will be in my mind. I'm not gonna try to give
an ethnography here, that was done by Gerald Hickey in Free in the
Forest, many years ago. Just wanna say a few things about some of
'em I've met. None of the "noble savage" bullsh*t. Some friends of
mine, is all. Just some friends.
The first 'yard I ever met was the Recon Company translator, at the
strip upon arrival in Kontum. He was a shock, even though I'd seen
pictures and had plenty of descriptions over the years. All of
4'10", maybe 100 lbs, dark and animated, and a regular wise ass. I
learned later he was an okay dude, and came by his attitude
honestly. He'd been translator for RT California once upon a time.
The limp didn't show much, but the right leg didn't work too good.
An American would get a Purple Heart and a trip home. He did get the
trip home. Which was about 500 meters. Now he didn't work on a team.
But they kept him employed. Call it "keepin' the faith...."
My next two 'yards were the ones who tried to con me out of a trip
home. Come to think of it, they succeeded. Anyway, they don't
count. I didn't even catch their names.
Then came Mr. Weet. Weet was Jarai, the large tribe/people that
inhabit the Central Highlands of Viet Nam and spill over into
adjacent areas of Cambodia and Laos. He spoke seven 'yard
dialects/languages, French, English and a couple Vietnamese
dialects. Didn't read in any of 'em, though. Which is okay, as there
isn't much to read in a 'yard ville, anyway. Helluva mind, anyway.
Blows the hell out of the word "primitive."
Mr. Weet was the current translator for RT California. Joe assigned
him to show me around and familiarize me with the 'yards my second
day there. First thing he did was take me down to the 'yard barracks
and introduce me to Sarge. Sarge really had a name, of course. But
I'll be damned if I can remember what it was. He was just "Sarge" to
me, RT California, and every 'yard in camp. He was the "elder" or
"headman" in camp. He looked it. He couldn't have been over thirty-
five, but he had an agelessness about him that really struck home. A
wispy beard, a fair sized, erect stature, and a perpetual pipe, set
him aside from all our troops. When he spoke, everyone stopped and
listened. Some folks just have TheWay about 'em; natural leaders,
wise before their years, knowledgeable in what is important. Sarge
was that way. When we had the shaman come to the camp for the
EyeCrud, even he deferred to Sarge. A leader among men, and would
have been anywhere, anytime.
Weet also introduced me to the rest of the team. They were an odd
lot, held together by the will power of Joe and Sarge. Four
different tribes were represented: Jarai, Rahde, Sedang and Bru. And
their looks were as diverse as their tribes. Punch was the smallest
at about 4'6", Drog the tallest at about 5'4". The age variance was
from around twenty (Punch) to mid-forties (another one of those
whose name eludes me.) With the exception of Weet, none of 'em spoke
more than a few words of English, and those mostly tactical or
profane or both. They all knew "fuginamboose", for example. I always
thought it meant "f*ckin' ambush," but I could have been wrong.
Weet then toured the camp and showed me what it looked like to the
'yards. Quite different from what Joe had shown me the previous
night. Which is what I think Joe intended. The 'yards were fightin'
a different war than we were, we simply happened to overlap on
missions. If you didn't understand that right up front, you never
got far with the 'yards. Weet made sure I knew it. I didn't fully
realize what he was doin' then. I don't think I really understood
the real situation for many years afterwards. Joe had asked him to
size me up, and he had decided I passed muster. Those who didn't get
the 'yards approval never made it to command a team. This wasn't in
the rules, "we" were in charge. Except that without the 'yards
unstintin' cooperation, you never could look good enough to go
anywhere. They might like you a lot, like they did Mortar Peter, but
they wouldn't do those extra things to make you look good. They
always made me look good. Weet did that for me. One more thing I owe
the man.
We did this sort of thing for three days. Weet knew everybody and
everything goin' on. I'd eat meals with the Americans, then spend
the day wanderin' the compound and environs with Weet. Hell, he even
took me home to meet his wife and kids in the ville. And showed me
my first jug. Took me about a day to realize that this guy was a
friend for life. Funny life we stumble through. But I loved the guy
from then on. Till a mine got him. Never mind that for now, it's
another story.
Each team had from eight to sixteen 'yards. Then the security
company and the Mike Force, when it moved into our compound about
four months after I got there, added another 250 or so. The ARVN
company in the compound had another twenty as scouts and point men.
Call it 420 'yards or so employed as soldiers in our camp. We had
another fifty or so, mostly older men and women, employed as labor.
Nearly all the skilled positions were filled by ethnic Vietnamese,
by political necessity. The 'yards are to Vietnamese what the Native
Americans were to the white settlers in the 1870's; savages to be
put down and herded onto reservations. They had euphemisms, of
course. But the most common term was "moi." I don't recall now what
the literal meanin' was. Think of it as "nigger," and you'll be
close to the intent.
The laborers and many of the families of the soldiers lived in a
ville just off the north side of the camp. It housed about 1000
folk, kids and all. Unlike a "natural" ville, it was a hodgepodge of
tribes and sub-cultures. The rulin' body was a group of "elders,"
rather than the normal "headman/woman." Conflictin' habits and norms
were sorted out by this group of men and women, and it kept 'em
hoppin'. It was also bigger than the usual tribal ville, with over
200 longhouses up on poles. And it wasn't surrounded by rice paddies
or huntin' grounds. The wages of the workers in camp provided food
and clothin' from the Vietnamese stores just outside the north gate
of camp. Not like anythin' I saw elsewhere in the highlands. But it
worked.
'Yards are much like any people in any time and place. The variety
of appearance, temperament, spirituality, work ethic, skill,
intelligence, and so on, was as great as it was among the Americans.
And, by and large, like the Americans and the Vietnamese, they were
good people. Many of 'em became fast friends, like Weet. None became
enemies. Wish I could say the same for the Americans and the
Vietnamese about that. I can't summarize them briefly. You can't do
that for any People. But I can say that there are no other People on
earth, other than my own, with whom I would care to spend a lifetime
but them.
People of the earth and forest. People of another place and time.
Glad I could share some time with 'em. It wasn't long enough. It
couldn't possibly be.
Hootch
Funny word, hootch. As I grew up it meant booze. Specifically,
illicit booze. Spelled it without the "t", too. It didn't mean that
in Nam, though. There, a hootch was a structure in which you lived
and slept. Specifically, a "field expedient abode." Air bases and
other semi-permanent installations had barracks. These are not
hootches. A hootch has to look..., well..., ramshackle. Tents could
be hootches. A couple pieces of cardboard with some tin on the roof
could be a hootch. Ours were considerably better than that. But they
were still just hootches.
Another thing about hootches. They sorta just happen. Somebody
always starts with a plan of what the area should look like and how
it should be laid out. It doesn't last through the construction
phase, however. Too much personality involved. Too little real
construction material involved. But in the older camps, like mine,
you can see that at least somebody, once upon a time, had thought
about it.
I lived in several different hootches while in Kontum. The first was
RT Michigan. Inside it was pretty much like the others. But time and
the vagaries of material and personal opinions had changed it from a
single, simple structure into a "complex." Over the years, roofs
(well..., tin) had been added over walkways, outlyin' conexes had
been annexed, extrusions and additions had happened, and it had
evolved. Sorta like an old shoppin' center that first covered its
walkways and then later roofed over the whole place. Four or five
buildings of four teams each had grown together into such a
hodgepodge that it was difficult to impossible to tell where one
ended and the next began. Mostly, we didn't bother. It was a maze of
passages and dead ends. I was glad to move out when I got
transferred to RT California. Was gettin' real tired of gettin'
lost.
RT California held sway in one quarter of a buildin'. Three other
teams shared the same basic structure, each with two exterior doors
and a couple screen windows with drop-down, tin covered awnings.
They dropped to keep the wind out when it blew. They sorta worked
for that. Inside was about ten foot by thirty foot. Outside, the
first four feet from the ground were cinder block. Above that it was
clapboard. Small attic under the gabled tin roof that was covered
with sandbags. The sandbags did two things; it kept the wind from
removin' our roof, and it covered the holes we blew in the tin
shootin' rats with the silenced .22. RT California's section of the
roof had over twice the number of sandbags as any other section of
roof in Recon country. I won't mention any names....
A single bunk sat in each corner of the hootch, with lockers in
between the bunks. This kept farts at a more or less safe distance.
At least in our hootch. Others stacked 'em or made diverse
arrangements. The bunks, that is. At the foot of each of our bunks
was a homemade foot locker for gear. They also were the only
furniture besides the beds for sittin' on, or playin' chess, or
pinochle, or whatever. Well, we did have one small table - for the
hot plate and the black-eyed peas. As that implies, we also had
electricity. At least, most of the time.
We had one unoccupied bunk while I was with the team. At the foot of
that one sat a five cubic foot refrigerator. That was always full of
cold stuff to drink. Beer, coke, tea, lemonade or whatever took the
mood. There was never any room for anythin' solid. One has to
maintain priorities, y'know. We also had shelves here and there
around the walls for this and that. Radios, a phonograph, lamps, and
odds and ends accumulated there. And nails everywhere in the walls
for hangin' things - web gear, guns, gas masks, coats, hats,
umbrellas, pictures, you name it. Experience proves that virtually
anythin' can be hung on a nail. Includin' me - but that's another
story altogether.
Two of our bunks were home made with thin Army mattresses. Two were
cheap grey metal with thin Army mattresses. Still, much better than
no mattress at all. Pillows were of all shapes, sizes and varieties.
Same thing with the linen. The only thing common to all was the
poncho liners for blankets. Camouflaged. In case the enemy came in,
he wouldn't be able to find the bunks. At least, that was as
reasonable a theory as any. Real blankets would have been a better
idea. Still, one whole hell of a lot better than many in Nam ever
saw.
Not really glamorous for decor. But what the hell, it was only a
hootch. It's not like any of us thought of it as home or anythin'.
Except when we weren't there, of course.
Saigon
Off to Long Binh for school. They call it "One Zero School." Teach
you how to run recon. Nice theory. What they really do is teach you
what a jungle looks like and how to live in it. Just outta Panama,
this is a cruise for me. SEA has jungles, but not the same as Latin
America. I worry about gettin' shot at on the final test op, but
that's all. The jungle's a snap. I end up doin' more teachin' that
learnin'. Except about dodgin' bullets, of course.
New class comin' in, and we gotta un*ss the hootches a day early. So
somebody asks if we wanna go to Saigon. Sure, I never been there,
let's go. Jump on a short hop and head for town. Saigon is
unimpressive. Ain't never been here before, but I've been to Mexico
City, and this place is about the same. I have a hard time gettin'
excited over crowded streets and exotic smells. Seen too many, and
know what goes on in the back streets. I'm badly disappointed. We
drive around long enough for me to get seriously turned around, and
pull up at this shabby lookin' buildin' with a 'yard on the gate.
Safehouse. The projects keep it here for guys passin' through to
hang out in when they're in town for one thing or the other. Nothin'
visible from the outside, but it's a fookin' fortress with limited
fields of fire. The doors, even the internal ones, are huge, heavy,
steel-sheathed monsters with code locks and heavily armed guards.
Not 'cause anybody's ever tried to get in. 'Cause it makes guys
from the field feel better in Saigon. Damn sure did me. And maybe
it had other purposes. Those did not make me feel better.
We get four-man rooms, and it's impossible to tell how many there
are. The halls go every whichway, and they're all locked off from
each other. I suspect other things go on here too. That's okay, got
plenty to occupy my mind without worryin' about extraneous stuff.
Suffice it to say that the place is big, and tight....
Our dinin' room is public, though. About twenty guys share the meal.
Besides us newbies, there's guys in from CCN, CCS and some of the
projects still runnin' out there on the borders. Afterwards,
there's a chance to go out on the town. The guy at the door issues
'Get Out of Jail Free' cards to those that go. I note that none of
the guys who been here a while go out. So I stay, too. Usually means
nothin' goin' on worth seein'. Matches my first impressions. Time
for a little intel gatherin'.
We adjourn to a lounge somewhere on the second floor. Maybe fifteen
of us left. There's a no-host bar in the corner, big overstuffed
chairs and everythin' but windows. Nice place. Coulda been in any
first class hotel in the world. But the clothes on the guys in the
room tells you it's Saigon. OD is "in" this season. Okay, we sit
down to serious dialog. I get to know about the guys up north, the
guys down south, and the guys out west. An education. Not a war I
fought, for the most part. The A-Camps are bad news, now. As if they
were ever good. The "rural pacification program" has gone
Vietnamese, and everybody's glad to see it go. That sorta thing.
Basic intel to make you feel like part of the family. Though I have
to admit to wonderin' about the nature of the family.
Here, I first get the stories about ops gone bad in the woods. The
disappearin' teams, the long walk-outs without radios, the
flashlights and the bad guys called NVA. Not a lot of VC left, I'm
told. All NVA now. I'll find out they're right, later.
I also hear from CCN about the Ashau. I shudder about that, and hope
my number never comes up. Other places, too. Bad places, with evil
names; Cobrahead, Parrot's Beak. Black Virgin Mountain.... I hear
about ops I can't and don't believe. It can be tough sortin' the
truth out from the fiction. And I've been tryin' for years. Shrug.
Whaddahell, it's just jaw-jackin'.
We musta talked damn near all night. Without windows, time is hard
to track, even lookin' at your watch. There are ghosts down the
halls that flit from door to door. Ya don't ask. You play some cards
and shoot the sh*t. I get to tell about Panama and the ops we ran
into Latin America. Most of 'em ain't been there, and it sounds
kinda romantic to the uninitiated. It ain't. I try to remember that
when they're talkin'. Don't work, of course. I'll figure that out
later.
Finally we filter off to bed. In the morning, we head for the strip
and plane rides back to the war. It wasn't anythin' special or all
that worth rememberin'. Except the house. I always wondered what
really went on there. Shrug. Probably blown to sh*t a long time ago.
My only trip to Saigon. My last night before the war. Kinda dull
stuff. 'Less you're a spook.
But I'm just a soldier. Thank God! Spooks do crazy stuff....
CIB
A "CIB" is the Combat Infantryman's Badge. Blue rectangle with a
musket and a big wreath. You get it for bein' shot at - well,
technically, for bein' an infantryman in combat. Boils down to the
same thing, though. Easy enough to get. The EIB, Expert
Infantryman's Badge, is much harder. Schools, tests, a major work
out. But you can guess which is more valued. It means you've "seen
the elephant." Means a lot to 'em what's got one. Or wants one.
Now, Nam is not the first place I got shot at. But if it's not a
"combat zone," it don't count. So, unless you were in WWII or Korea,
Nam was the only game in town if you wanted one. Not the reason I
went, but I damn sure wanted one when I got there. Stupid. Gettin'
shot at is not cool. I get it anyway.
I've been in-country for a couple months. I've straphung a few
times, but managed to sneak and peek effectively enough that I ain't
been shot at. Neither were dry holes. No CIB. Not smart enough to
let it ride. The team I'm on simply isn't. It was wasted just before
I arrived. I got some 'yards, and that's it. So I straphang as often
as I can.
I cozy up to RT Washington, it bein' ready to go into a suspected
"very wet" hole in the next couple days. They say, "Sure, you ever
carry an RPD?"
"No, I be CAR-15 man. Seen 'em, fired 'em, but never carried one."
"Well, you be one now, Mat's sick."
"Okay, let's run out to the range."
Fifteen minute drive out the other side of OP Alpha. Hand me an RPD.
I never fired one that had been "modified." Barrel's cut back to
just in front of the gas cylinder, and that's cranked wide open.
Bipod is gone. It gets real hot, and the forward wood grip is
wrapped with asbestos and green tape. Butt's been recut for a bigger
shoulder. Don't matter, never get it to your shoulder, anyway.
Unlike an American machine gun, it uses a drum. Not a wind-up, just
a box to hold the belt. Non-disintegratin' links. Drum holds 100 to
125 rounds, dependin' on how tight you crank the roll. Hang another
twenty-five outside, and you max at 150. With a 150 rounder, it
weighs in just slightly less than an M-60 without any rounds. Good
for small teams.
Range is just an open field with a beat-to-sh*t treeline as a
backstop.
"Okay, hose off some rounds to get a feel."
Drop some six-seven round bursts. They go pretty much where I want
'em. Kicks a little, and I'll have to rock up on the pistol grip in
a big burst. Fire's good, though.
"Now, do a sweep."
This is not a regulation range, and I know what he means. I put the
muzzle down, and drop rounds in longer bursts from five feet to
twenty-five feet out, swingin' slowly. He shows me how to recover
the non-disintegratin' links as they break off in twenty-five round
lengths. Stuff 'em in your shirt front. Hard to replace, so you do
it. Okay. Got 100 rounds left, now what. He goes out and plants some
cardboard in the woods beyond the treeline. I stand at twenty-five
meters. He says to hose 'em with the remainder. Okay. I grease some
cardboard from the hip. Was always pretty good with a '60. He
brings back the cardboard. I'm on the team. Some pretty dead lookin'
cardboard.
That night I learn to strip and clean it. I learn to love it. Sweet
piece of 'chinery. Hand load the belts. Every fifth round a tracer.
Green. That'll take some gettin' used to.
Next few days we go out and practice IA (Immediate Action) drills.
Point man or team leader does this, you do that. Fire from over
here, you go over there. Basic sh*t. Teams are different, so I try
to do it real good. F*ckups get ya dead. I be bright lad, and it
goes well. I'll walk behind point with the firepower. Okay. Can you
tell I ain't got a clue, yet? Back in camp, we pack our bags. I find
out how many rounds you carry. Sh*t! Gonna be heavy. Big sigh.
Sweet gun, though. I'll make it. We go over the insert and mission
in general. Gonna see if a regimental HQ is where they think it is.
I don't get the camera this trip, even though I be good sneaky
peter. One zero on this team likes to do it hisveryownself. Okay,
his team. We plan and rehearse. Looks like a lot of folk in there.
One zero says we'll do some huntin' when we're done so I can get my
CIB. Hot damn! I'm in!
Zero-too-damned-dark-thirty and we eat a light breakfast and climb
on the renta-slicks. Drivers know where to go, and we're off. Stop
and refuel once. Drop off that god forsaken hilltop and into
Cambodia. Thirty minutes later we peel into an LZ and move out.
Covey says it looks quiet, but there's some activity to the south.
Okay, we're goin' west. Spend a night before we get to where we're
goin. Next day, around noon, we set up on a slope above where the
bad guys are supposed to be. One zero and one 'yard go for a looksee
with the camera. Come back just before sundown with big, sh*t-eatin'
grins. We're in fat city. Move off a couple klicks and set up for
the night. Tom (the one zero) tells me it's right where it was
supposed to be, and the place is crawlin' with guys in khaki. Fills
us all in, 'case we lose him on the way out. SOP.
"Now," he says, "we gonna go huntin'."
Damn straight!
We swin' back east and then south. Two days on the trail, but we're
goin' slow, so it's not a problem. Don't see nobody worth pickin'
on. Couple papa-sans in their paddies, nothin' else. Around mid-
afternoon on the second day we find a trail, highspeed variety.
Heavy usage. Good sh*t. We drop back and watch. Every hour or so we
see troops goin' east. Mostly ten men and less. Carryin' heavy
supplies. Perfectomundo! In the mornin' we'll set ambush less than a
klick from a good LZ we'd passed earlier. Tom makes the call to
Covey and arranges exfil and some air in the neighborhood,