The Green Berets: The Amazing Story of the U. S. Army's Elite Special Forces Unit

by Robin Moore

  The old man shifted his feet and then answered in a few mumbled words. “The Cao-Dai elder,” Lang translated, “says it is the end of the lunar month, and traditional to pray at the pagoda.”

  “We are expecting a VC attack any night,” Dewart said. “It would be most dangerous for you to be in the camp during such an attack, especially since the VC must know we have been storing our ammunition in the pagoda.”

  Dewart watched the derisive expression come to the faces of the two younger men. They began talking back to Lang, ignoring the old man. After a few moments Lang turned to Dewart.

  “They say there are no VC here. They say even if VC were here the VC respect religious nights and pagodas.” Lang paused, apparently embarrassed to go on.

  “Keep talking, Lang. What else did they say?”

  “They say VC have more respect for religion than Americans who helped ex-President Diem burn pagodas and who even now store the materials for war in a sacred Cao-Dai temple.”

  Dewart nodded gravely. “Tell them, Lang, that Americans respect all religions. And to prove it, tell them that tomorrow we will move our ammunition from their temple. We know the Cao-Dai priests are powerful and they have the ear of the generals in Saigon. Tell them we will permit them to come in tomorrow night for one hour during the full moon. We are sorry it cannot be longer, but because of the VC attack we do not want civilians endangered. Ask them what hour they would like to come.”

  With triumphant smirks the young men replied to the translation. The elder remained impassive and silent.

  “Dai-uy, they say again no VC will attack this post tonight or tomorrow night.”

  “How do they know that unless they are VC themselves?”

  The dart translated brought a surprised look to the young men. They muttered to Lang.

  “They say they will come into the camp at 11:00 tomorrow night. They say also that the Americans must move this camp away from the sacred Cao-Dai pagoda. It was built by one of the first Cao-Dai elders to come here from Tay Ninh. They do not want another pagoda somewhere else, only this one.”

  Dewart nodded at the men sympathetically, “I know we must help the Cao-Dai who are allied with the new government. They may come into camp tomorrow night at 11:00 for one hour.”

  Lang looked at the captain in surprise. “Dai-uy, do you think it is good to let them all in tomorrow night? Some of them might be VC.”

  Dewart professed shock. “Why, Lang, you were just telling me the Cao-Dai are loyal. And you didn’t even want to search them. Tell you the truth, I thought you were on their side.”

  “I did not mean to seem that way to you, Dai-uy.”

  “You tell the Cao-Dais what I said. And then you find the LLDB camp commander and tell him I have agreed to cooperate with our Buddhist friends if he gives permission for them to come in and pray tomorrow night. You tell those Cao-Dais if they are not allowed in tomorrow night it is because one of their fellow Buddhists doesn’t trust them, not the Americans.

  “Come on,” Dewart said to me and turned on his heel.

  “OK, here it is,” he announced as we reached the gate where Sergeant Rutt and the R and D man were happily discussing demolitions. “Brucker, I believe you are Heaven-sent, or should I say Nirvana-sent.”

  Dewart then explained his problem with VC-dominated local Cao-Dais.

  “I don’t think you should let them in tomorrow night, sir,” Sergeant Rutt said.

  “We won’t have to, because you and Mr. Brucker are going to fix things up for me.”

  He and the R and D man went into a huddle. I heard something about getting Rutt squared away on a radio-controlled series of explosions.

  That night I sat around with the team in the unfinished, unroofed teamhouse, all of us dressed in black Vietnamese pajamas. “I always wondered how the camp commander would react in case of an attack,” Sergeant Rutt mused aloud.

  “Looks like we’ll find out,” said Sergeant Penny. “You sure you got them claymore mines aimed high, Rutt?”

  “I tipped them so they’d fire at a 40 degree angle. When they start spitting shrapnel it will sound as though the stuff is going past your ears. But don’t sweat it, those pieces of metal will be flying fifty feet above the walls.”

  “Well, I hope so,” Penny said. “I don’t want no more medic work tonight. Near 100 people came down the canals in their sampans to my sick call today.”

  Captain Dewart finished the letter to his wife and sealed it in an envelope. “I’m about ready to get some sleep. It’s 10:30. What say we get this VC attack started and over with.”

  “Anytime you say, sir.” Rutt went over to a table on which was what appeared to be a small radio transmitter sprouting a three-foot antenna. There were two knobs for adjusting transmission frequency and band and a vertical row of toggle switches down one side. The only thing missing was a microphone.

  Everyone stared in silence at the Research and Development trial device.

  “OK, Rutt, no time like the present,” Dewart said. “Let’s have the first ‘VC attack’ from that patch of jungle near the south wall, the place I’ve been trying to get Captain Bao to clean up.”

  “Right, sir.” Rutt picked up the radio detonator. “OK, you guys, everyone down behind the sandbags. Those claymores just might fire low.”

  The team crouched behind the sandbagged wall of the all-but-roofless teamhouse. “Here goes!” Rutt toggled a switch and a sudden, sharp explosion rent the night air. The nerve-jangling whine of shrapnel from the claymore mines screamed over the camp. Instantly, all the machine guns on the jungle side of the camp opened up with a vengeance. The loud, shrill tweeting of a police whistle attested to the fact that the camp commander was alert and rallying his troops.

  “It’s a good thing we got more ammo than we know what to do with,” the weapons sergeant laughed. “Those swinging dicks on the wall won’t quit shooting ’til they run out.”

  After more than five minutes with no incoming fire, the chatter of the machine guns died out to sporadic bursts.

  “Guess we’d better goose them again from the jungle,” Dewart said.

  “One more VC wave coming, in, sir,” Rutt acknowledged. He toggled a switch. Another blast from outside the camp, followed by the whine of shrapnel. Savagely the machine guns chopped at the jungle again.

  “OK, give it to them from out where the ‘mortar rounds’ are going to come from tomorrow,” Dewart commanded. Rutt toggled twice. Two thunderous blasts from the rice fields to the east, and the comer bunker machine-gunner switched from the jungle and cut loose across the rice paddies. There was more whistle blowing and the troops moved to reinforce the east wall.

  “That’s enough,” Dewart ordered. “Safety that radio detonator, Rutt.”

  Machine-gun and riflefire continued to cut through the night.

  Bao, the camp commander, dashed to Dewart, “Dai-uy, VC attacking.”

  The American shook his head. “Just a probe, I think, Dai-uy. Did your men see any VC?”

  “Yes, many,” Bao answered in excitement. “They come from jungle but we too-much shoot. Kill maybe five, maybe ten.”

  “How about from the east?”

  “Yes, they come. But we too-much shoot. They go away. Maybe they come back with more men.”

  “Not tonight,” Dewart replied with assurance. “They didn’t lay any mortars on us. You have good alert men, Dai-uy. Congratulations. We Americans sleep well knowing our Vietnamese friends always ready for VC attack.”

  The LLDB captain smiled at such high praise from his American Special Forces counterpart.

  The next morning Dewart suggested that Bao send out a patrol across the rice paddies to look for signs of a VC buildup. Reluctantly the camp commander agreed to send two platoons. “Maybe too many VC in jungle past rice paddy to east,” he protested. “Maybe our men be ambushed by too many VC.”

  “No, Dai-uy,” Dewart reassured his counterpart. “Our men can handle the VC, and besides,” he paused to gi
ve full significance to his next statement—“we can cover them with very accurate mortar fire from here. Good thing, too, because at that range a good VC mortarman can lay a round in your lap if he wants to.”

  Sergeant Rutt took the patrol out, and Dewart asked Bao to order a detail of his men to help transfer the ammunition from the Cao-Dai pagoda to temporary bunkers some distance from the Buddhist house of worship.

  “The Cao-Dai should be pleased with our respect for their religion,” Dewart said to Bao as the last of the heavy ammunition crates was wrestled from the shrine.

  Bao agreed. “I am not Cao-Dai but we all Buddhists.” After a moment he added, “I no like we leave this camp only because of pagoda.”

  Dewart shrugged. “Are you ready for a VC attack tonight?”

  “We OK. I no like Cao-Dai come in camp tonight. Maybe VC come in too.”

  “Then tell them they can’t come in,” Dewart suggested.

  “No,” Bao replied positively. “In Saigon tell province chief, district chief we must”—Bao paused, searching for the words in English—“we must work with Cao-Dai. In Saigon they no think Cao-Dai here work with VC. We think maybe VC make Cao-Dai work with them. But we no tell Saigon. Saigon tell we.”

  Dewart turned to me with a grin. “You know, he’s got a good point. It’s the same in every army. What the general at the top says goes, no matter how far away and how wrong he is.”

  Late in the afternoon Sergeant Rutt and the two CIDG platoons returned.

  “Dai-uy Bao,” Rutt reported, “we see many signs of VC. They are watching us.”

  Bao nodded somberly. “VC all around. They no want us here.”

  “They need two maybe three battalions to overrun us,” Dewart speculated. “They will harass us; they will give us mortar rounds”—he paused, then went on—“but VC do not want three, four hundred men dead just to take this place.”

  Bao nodded thoughtfully.

  “Are the Cao-Dai chiefs coming back this afternoon?” Dewart asked.

  “Yes,” Bao answered. “Old priest and other two. They come see pagoda with no guns, no ammunition store in it—like you promise—so all is good for pray tonight.”

  “That’s fine, Bao. Very good. Have Lang call me when they get to the gate.”

  Dewart led Sergeant Rutt and me into his thatched-over corner of the teamhouse. “How did you do, Rutt?”

  “Fine, sir. I placed the three charges. They’ll sound like mortar rounds being fired. What about the three charges in camp?”

  “We put them in while the ammo was being moved. Check with Sergeant Lyons to make sure you have them set up in the right order on your radio detonator.”

  “Yes, sir. Say, this is a real precision operation,” the demo sergeant said. “Mr. Brucker would sure like to have a written report on it.”

  “I don’t need a court-martial this year, thank you. My wife’s having a baby. Now get busy. I want to pull this off just right, while the old Cao-Dai and his two VC hoods are in camp.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Rutt, watch me closely for the signals.”

  “No sweat, sir.”

  It was 5:00 when the Cao-Dai elder and his two hard-eyed advisers arrived at the gate. Lang, a gracious Captain Dewart, and a worried Captain Bao greeted them. The two young men sneered openly to see they had succeeded in forcing the Americans to remove their war supplies from the pagoda.

  The Cao-Dai priest, white robes gathered around him, walked into the shrine and emerged moments later. He bowed to the American captain, and through Lang announced there would be many Cao-Dai in for prayer that night when the moon was full.

  “How many Cao-Dai will come in tonight?”

  The two youths flanking the old man snapped some words to Lang, who appeared concerned as he turned back to Captain Dewart. “They say 30 to 40 members of the sect have gathered for prayers tonight.”

  “Maybe 40 men,” Bao repeated. “That is bad.”

  “Maybe you say no. Explain later to the district chief, province chief, and Saigon,” Dewart suggested blandly.

  Bao shook his head. “But we watch them hard all time,” he said vehemently.

  Dewart bowed slightly to the two defiant young Vietnamese and the captive Cao-Dai priest. “Lane, tell the Cao-Dai leaders that we will be expecting them tonight.”

  Lang translated. The Cao-Dai elder placed the palms of his hands together and held them toward the American, bowing his head slightly. His two companions stared sullenly. Then the three of them started to walk from the pagoda toward the gate.

  Everything depended upon the river birds flying over at the regular time. Dewart looked up the river. I followed his glance. There they came, right on schedule, heading for the camp.

  The white birds were about half a minute away when Dewart made a sign with his left hand. Rutt nodded and then a low, distant pop resounded to the east.

  Dewart significantly cocked his head. A second bang rumbled across the rice paddies, then a third sharp pop. “You hear that, Bao?”

  “VC fire mortar at us from east!” Bao cried. “Soon hit!”

  The camp commander shouted a warning in Vietnamese at the Cao-Dai elder. The two Communist hoods turned back toward the invitingly-secure sandbagged pagoda, surprise and fear mirrored on their faces. The biggest lack in VC guerrilla war was communications. I restrained a laugh, reading the minds of the two young Communists. Someone hadn’t given them the word, they were probably muttering to each other. Of all fool times to harass the American camp!

  Out of the comer of my eyes I saw the birds. Then came the whirring rattle from above.

  “Incoming!” Dewart yelled. Lang screamed the warning in Vietnamese. The old Cao-Dai priest was knocked to the ground in the sudden dash his two young advisers made for the safety of the heavily bunkered pagoda. Bao jumped to the aid of the old Cao-Dai priest, sheltering the holy man’s body with his own.

  Dewart slapped an armlock on Lang who had turned toward the pagoda and threw him to the ground. Gingerly, I lay down on a grassy spot.

  When he saw the two Viet Cong had made it inside the pagoda, Dewart gave Rutt the signal. Three successive explosions swelled the ground under us, concussion waves knocking the breath out of me. This seemed overdoing realism.

  Slowly Dewart regained his feet, pulling his frightened interpreter up beside him. Captain Bao helped up the shaken Cao-Dai priest and slapped some of the dust out of his robes. Dust and debris were sifting down into the middle of the camp. On the walls the BAR’s had opened up, spraying the area east of the camp with heavy fire.

  The first blast had torn out the sandbagging and the outer wall of the camp for a radius of three feet along the river. The second blast had walked back and exploded halfway to the center of camp, blasting a sizeable crater in an open area but doing no damage.

  Shaking uncontrollably, Lang stared at the results of the third explosion—what had once been the Cao-Dai pagoda, the refuge he was seeking when Captain Dewart threw him to the ground: a huge cloud of settling dust, bits of building material and thatching hung above a smoking crater.

  Bao stared incredulously at the wreckage. “Direct hit,” he managed to say at last.

  Dewart nodded. “Good thing we moved the ammo. I told you a good VC mortarman can land a round on your handkerchief from the edge of the paddies.”

  The old Cao-Dai priest gazed for some moments at the smoking ruin, and slowly comprehension seemed to get through to him. He turned, and the American captain saw relief, then satisfaction appear in the old man’s eyes. There was no need for a translator.

  Dewart placed his palms together and bowed solemnly. To Lang he said, “Tell the Cao-Dai priest that we will build him a new pagoda any place he directs, five kilometers or better from the camp.” Dewart gestured toward the blasted sandbags. “Tell him no chance of finding any bodies for funeral. Tell him”—he paused—“I’m sorry about that.”

  Dewart turned from Bao and the priest, winked at me, and caught
Rutt’s huge grin as the demolitions sergeant peered over the sandbagged teamhouse. Sternly, Captain Dewart called out, “OK Rutt, police up the rest of the team, and start getting this camp cleaned up. Tomorrow we go to work finishing this fort. I want a damned roof over our heads by tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, sir. One tin roof coming up, sir!”

  5

  Two Birds With One Stone

  1

  I met Captain Brandy Martell a few weeks after General Nguyen Khanh took over direction of the South Vietnam Government from “Big” Minh—a change American advisers welcomed as one for the better. Brandy’s real name was François, but no one called him that. Originally from Belgium, an OSS agent during World War II, Brandy found his way into the American Army in the early fifties and became a U.S. citizen.

  I was in Saigon with Captain Tim Pickins, now fully recovered from his wounds. Tim had commandeered a jeep and was giving me a guided tour of the town. At 11:00 in the morning, we were passing a small open coffeehouse removed from the more Americanized center of town when he spotted Captain Martell. Brandy was seated at a table near the sidewalk dressed in dapper sports-clothes, reading a French newspaper.

  Tim pulled the jeep to a halt. “Nobody knows what the hell Brandy does when he gets into town,” he said. “He just becomes one of the Saigon frogs and we never see him. Personally, I think he’s working part time for the Agency.” Pickins grinned wickedly. “Wait’ll he sees us. He hates to be seen with Americans.”

  “Maybe we should leave him alone.”

  “Better grab him while you can. You can’t ever be sure of finding Captain Martell at Nam Luong—that’s his camp. He does jobs even I don’t know about. And I’m supposed to know everything that happens at the ten A teams in my area.”

  Brandy turned a long angular face up at us as we entered the coffeehouse, his deep-brown, almost liquid eyes regarding us mournfully. His hair was coal black, he wore it long in defiance of Army convention, and he looked incredibly young.

  “Good morning, Brandy,” Pickins said cheerfully.

  Martell nodded but said nothing in return.