by Robin Moore
Nichols would be coming in under worse light and ceiling conditions than he had experienced on the med evac I had flown with him and Mr. Pomfret. Also there was the heavy machine gun to menace him.
Sergeant Raskin returned to the LZ and I handed him the grenade. Just then we heard the welcome sound of a helicopter flying down “Destruction Alley,” or so the place seemed to me by now. Tensely we waited, and then the black bulb hanging under the wide rotor blades showed up against the dirty-gray clouds.
Raskin pulled the pin and threw the smoke bomb into the LZ. Several montagnards helped the two wounded strikers toward the edge of the LZ. The dead montagnard was also carried out. It would be quite a chopper load.
The Huey spotted our smoke and started to slant directly into the LZ. There was a sudden, not unexpected, burst of heavy machine-gun fire. We couldn’t tell whether any rounds actually hit the helicopter, but it continued to slant in.
The burst of .50-caliber fire had hardly died away before a tremendous series of blasts rang out from the hills to the west. Grenades exploded in rapid succession over what seemed to be a wide area. Then came the sharp rattle of small-arms fire. No return .50-caliber fire could be heard in what sounded to be a brutal fire-fight.
Raskin directed the skin ship to the ground, and he and I picked up Mr. Pomfret’s litter, ran to the chopper, and shoved it aboard. We loaded Captain Frisbie; the corpse was tucked under the back seat, and the two wounded strikers were lifted aboard. It looked like a full load already but Lieutenant Nichols motioned Mr. Pomfret’s three crew members aboard, and then with a downblast that almost blew us off the LZ the doughty little skin ship popped up into the air and skittered back down the valley towards Da Nang.
Raskin and I each breathed a quick sigh of relief—but our work had hardly begun. Hastily, we organized the montagnards and made a fast forced march for the hilltop Major Harvey had picked out to beat off the expected VC attack.
3
One week later, back at home base in Nha Trang, I headed for the hospital. The nurses and doctors were getting to know me by now, so many of my friends were in their care.
“How’s Mr. Pomfret?” I asked the chief surgeon, a lieutenant colonel.
The surgeon shook his head. “Paralyzed.”
I felt a cold chill in my stomach, and for lack of anything intelligent to say asked if he would ever recover.
“It is very hard to be optimistic now,” the surgeon replied. “Why don’t you go in and see him? There’s a whole A team from ‘Eye’ Corps in there now. They leave tomorrow to go home to Okinawa.”
I walked along the boardwalk laid over the sandy soil—the beach was just a short distance away. There were rows of tents and temporary wooden structures, screened-in but open to the breeze blowing off the sea. Mr. Pomfret was in an officers’ ward and I saw Captain Locke and his entire team around the skin-ship pilot’s bed. As I approached I saw a little informal ceremony was taking place. Captain Locke took the green beret off his head and placed it on the bed beside Mr. Pomfret’s rigid form. I couldn’t hear exactly what he said; I did not want to interrupt. Then the presentation was over and the team was saying loud good-byes.
“They’ll have you back in this war in six months, sir!”
“We aren’t coming back until we know you’re flying again.”
“Hey, sir! That goof-off spec four, Krofault, remember? He’s still at Clark Field Hospital. He said to thank you for his leg.”
I waited until Captain Locke and his men had finished, then walked down the narrow passage between the beds until Mr. Pomfret could see me.
“Hiya!” he greeted me.
“How you feeling?”
“I’ll make it.” Then his eyes brightened. “What happened after I left? Major Harvey got the fifty, huh?”
“I should hope to tell you. He had his strikers spread out all over the place. The minute the VC opened up, there were at least four yards in grenade range of it. They had a hell of a fight and damned if they didn’t all get back.”
“Good. Well, Nichols did all right.”
“He sure did.”
I picked up the green beret Captain Locke had put on the bed.
Pomfret’s eyes followed me. “Hey, how about that?” he said, pleased. His voice began to trail off: “They made me an honorary green beret.”
“They couldn’t have given it to a better man.” It was just the kind of remark he would have made himself. Mr. Pomfret was never one for false modesty.
Too bad he couldn’t hear me. He was fast asleep.
10
Hit ’Em Where They Live
My diminutive, brown-skinned intellectual friend from Fort Bragg was surprised to see me step off the Army Aviation Caribou onto the airstrip of his top-secret base. In fact, as Captain Jesse DePorta stared at me from under his beret he looked as though he were wondering whether to shake hands or throw me in some detention chamber for the duration of the Vietnam war. The pilot of the ship, knowing that no unauthorized people—and a civilian writer was about as unauthorized as you could get—were allowed to even know about the existence of this base, much less set foot on it, hastily explained our presence. It shouldn’t have been necessary. An ugly series of frayed holes down the side of the plane, and oil leaking from the shot-up engine onto the cement apron of the runway told the story.
I had started out on a routine supply mission that morning and coming out of the northernmost Special Forces camp in South Vietnam a Viet Cong machine-gun battery had opened up on us. The pilot did not dare throw the faltering plane into a banking turn at our low altitude. He pushed on and landed at this secret base, thirty miles on a straight course from where we picked up the rounds.
“Don’t even carry your camera off the plane,” the pilot told me. “And forget anything you see here.”
The first thing I saw was Captain DePorta in the front-seat of a jeep, a machine gunner behind him covering us.
“Hiya, Jesse,” I said with a sheepish grin. “I was wondering if I’d see you this trip.”
“I wish you hadn’t.” Then, to the pilot: “How long will it take you to get your plane in shape to fly out of here?”
“I don’t know, sir. Could be a couple of days.”
“We’ll arrange a chopper evacuation for the civilian,” DePorta said.
“Thanks,” I acknowledged.
“It will take a couple of hours or more to get one to come over from Da Nang.” DePorta studied the Caribou a few moments and I was relieved to see a white-toothed smile split his mahogany-colored face.
“Looks like you had a hairy one,” DePorta said, his Filipino accent noticeable.
“The groundfire gets worse every month,” said the pilot.
“Let’s go have a cup of coffee.”
“The civilian too?” I asked.
“Come on.”
The pilot shook his head. “I’d better stay with the ship. When you send for the chopper ask them to sneak a mechanic in here too, will you?”
“Will do,” DePorta agreed.
I hopped into the back seat of the jeep and we were off. As we drove along a dirt road through scrub trees and bush I heard staccato bursts of machine-gun fire and single shots that sounded like high-power riflefire. A few minutes later we passed a firing range where I saw men in green berets and Vietnamese in the red LLDB berets. I could see some of the weapons they were firing.
“Looks like the School,” I remarked. “Not an American weapon on the line.” I craned my neck and looked back as the jeep sped on.
“You shouldn’t be seeing all this.”
A few minutes later we reached a cluster of low wooden buildings and pulled up in front of a teamhouse. Inside, DePorta asked if I wanted coffee or iced tea. I chose the latter.
“Been a long time, Jesse,” I said sipping the cold drink. “I heard you were doing something like this but no one seemed to know where you were.”
“What do you mean, something like this?”
�
�After you’ve been over here a while things begin to add up. Inadvertently one of the guys, forgetting I’m an unauthorized civilian, showed me the sterile warehouse in Saigon. You know, where all the weapons, clothes and equipment have been bought from either Communist bloc or neutral countries. If infiltrators using them get caught where they aren’t supposed to be, the United States can’t be implicated.”
DePorta nodded soberly, but didn’t answer.
“I suppose the men on that line we passed could fire and fieldstrip any weapon made in the world.”
DePorta shrugged.
“What is this place, Jesse? The SFOB for some action against the Viet Cong in their own territory?”
A montagnard came in and asked DePorta something in a guttural language. DePorta answered in kind.
“I’d forgotten what a linguist you are, Jesse. Was that Bru you were talking?”
“Yes. I get along in Bru, Vietnamese, and one or two other montagnard dialects.”
“Can I go with you, Jesse?”
“Go where?” he asked innocently.
“Where you people here are getting ready to go.”
“We have no plans. Besides, I’m afraid the kind of missions we’re planning would be restricted to”—he grinned at me—“unauthorized civilians.”
“Can you show me any more of this place?” I asked. “Tell you what—the only people I’ll blab it to will be VC’s.”
DePorta laughed loudly. “OK,” he said, “we’ll take a little drive.”
This story is about a full A team, a joint U.S. Special Forces LLDB detachment, in its guerrilla role. The mission described shows how all the skills on an A team are blended to achieve a single objective.
I wasn’t on the operation, obviously, since it was top secret and one amateur, or even one less-than-outstanding professional, could cause the mission to fail.
I had my first inkling that a mission such as DePorta and his men were planning might be in operation when I read of the tragic crash in early December of an unmarked transport ship just outside Da Nang. Vietnamese pilots had been flying the ship and in it were 30 Vietnamese and two United States Special Forces men on a top-secret mission. They were all wearing jump gear. Understandably, Vietnamese and United States authorities refused to divulge any information on the plane or its destination.
Later, through information from various sources, I was able to project the story which follows.
1
Captain Jesse DePorta sat in the briefing room of the Special Forces Operating Base listening to Colonel Volkstaad up from the J-3 Special Warfare Board in Saigon.
Beside DePorta sat the CO and the staff officers of the SFOB. A select group of 20 Special Forces men, wearing jungle fatigues, occupied benches behind the Filipino-American Special Forces captain. They were an unusual-looking crew; they seemed to be Asiatics dressed in American uniforms.
The Nordic-looking colonel’s blue eyes snapped with excitement as he addressed his audience. “Men, you have necessarily been isolated here in the briefing center for the past two weeks, so I’ll bring you up to date on the political situation that forces us to activate your operation sooner than we had expected.”
The men leaned closer.
“As of now, the political situation in Saigon is, to be frank, a shambles.” Colonel Volkstaad smiled wryly. “The civilian government of Premier Huong cannot last much longer. The Buddhists are rioting in the streets, the students are being inflamed by Communist agitators, and Intelligence reports that the Viet Cong are getting ready to launch their largest offensive since the war began. We suffered a tremendous loss of prestige in the eyes of the world when a few Viet Cong guerrillas destroyed our jet bombers at Bien Hoa with mortar fire and killed or wounded so many Americans.”
The colonel paused, catching the eye of first one, then another of the men listening to him intently. “After taking too many defeats here in Vietnam lying down, we’re going to do something about it. We’re going to hit ’em where they live!”
There was a buzz in the room. The colonel held up his hand. “There have been too many unsuccessful attempts to set up guerrilla operations against the Communists. We mean no offense to our Vietnamese allies, but to date their efforts have achieved negative results and most of the men who went out have either been killed or captured. Now we’re forced to try something new: a joint U.S. and South Vietnamese operation, led and commanded by Americans.”
The colonel walked to the large map. “We have picked a solid Communist area, industrialized and alert to possible infiltration. You have been studying assessments of the area for months and you must know how important it is to the Communists. The electric plants are good, the factories in the north of your area are turning out military equipment, and even Chinese copies of Russian and American weapons. There have been no less than three Vietnamese attempts to infiltrate this area. All failed. Your area is one of the most important staging centers for the Viet Cong guerrillas slipping into South Vietnam. If your mission is successful it will do more to shake up Hanoi than even air strikes, because for the first time we will be spreading dissension and carrying out frequent, unexpected, and damaging guerrilla raids in a Communist heartland.”
Colonel Volkstaad pointed to the center of the area outlined in red. “Here is Hang Mang, the most important city within a radius of one hundred miles. It controls the entire area. The electric plant there, installed by a combined Russian and Red Chinese team, supplies power to the province. Cripple Hang Mang, and you will prove that our guerrilla ground forces can do the same to any Communist city, including Hanoi.
“Someday, we don’t know when, but it could be soon, there will be new negotiations. We want to negotiate from strength with a shaken, fearful Hanoi. Your job is to show Ho Chi Minh just how we can cripple his industry and supply lines, and assassinate his leaders. Your mission—officially known as ‘Falling Rain’—will prepare the way for infiltrating 50, maybe 100, guerrilla teams into Communist strongholds in North Vietnam, and we will erode Hanoi’s will to keep up the guerrilla warfare against its neighbours.”
Colonel Volkstaad silently surveyed the group of dark-skinned “Asiatics.” “The Communists will never be able to prove the United States is behind this operation. No man here could be picked out of a crowd as a Caucasian. You will be supplied completely with sterile equipment. Oh, Hanoi will know who is behind this operation. But Hanoi will be cautious about charging America with a land invasion of a major Communist stronghold. It would show up their weakness.”
The colonel paused. “That is all I have to say. We all wish Acbat the very best of luck. Operation Falling Rain depends on you!”
“Thank you, sir,” DePorta said. “Acbat will do its job!”
Colonel Volkstaad took a front seat beside Colonel Langston, commanding officer of the SFOB. A sober-faced, gray-haired major took Volkstaad’s place.
Major Fraley, scarred and grizzled from a lifetime of combat, was the S-3 or operations officer of the SFOB. Everything pertaining to the actual workings of the mission was his immediate responsibility.
“Right!” he began, acknowledging all Colonel Volkstaad had said. “This will be the read-back briefing on Operation Falling Rain.”
Fraley stepped to the large relief map of Indo-China facing the room, and placed his hand on a mountain range above a large valley. “Here is the Guerrilla Warfare Operating Area Acbat will open up. DePorta, you start.”
DePorta walked to the map. “Acbat infiltrates the GWOA at 2300 hours at this point,” he began indicating the spot on the map. “The reception party on the DZ will be led by Major Luc of G-2 this SFOB, who has been working for a month with the Tai tribesmen we will live with. Every member of Acbat knows Major Luc by sight.
“Our mission is to open up the GWOA, which runs eighty miles from north to south and from twenty to thirty miles east to west.” DePorta traced the area on the map.
“As soon as we have established our base in the center of the GWOA we wil
l contact the underground in Hang Mang about fifteen miles from infiltration point.
“We will send patrols out to locate operational sites for A detachments Artie and Alton. As soon as we have sites and potential indigenous guerrillas for them, we will call in Artie and Alton.” DePorta nodded to Captain Sampson Buckingham, a burly, short black in the second row, commander of Alton. Then his glance shifted to Captain Victor Locke, commander of Artie. Locke was of pure Anglo-Saxon extraction but his dark-stained skin and brown eyes made him blend with the rest of the non-Caucasians in the room.
“When we are ready for Alton and Artie to infiltrate the GWOA Acbat becomes Batcat, the B detachment for Operation Falling Rain. We activate the operation when Artie and Alton are ready to hit their targets. Then, sir, we make Uncle Ho cry ‘Uncle.’ ”
Major Fraley, standing beside DePorta, said, “Right. That’s the overall mission. Now, for the Special Operations read-back, Captain Smith.”
The executive officer of Acbat, Brick Smith, stood up. Though pure Caucasian his eyes and skin were dark and his black hair was worn in unmilitary bangs. DePorta had handpicked Smith, not only for his skills but because he sensed Smith neither planned nor wanted to return from the mission alive.
“Our first operation will be to exfiltrate Major Luc. We will clear a U-10 LZ and advise the SFOB. Our second special operation is to kidnap the province political chief in Hang Mang, one Pham Son Ti.
“Ti is the most powerful man in the GWOA and all the other chiefs, while in theory equal to him, are in fact taking orders from him. He is an old line revolutionary who commanded a Viet Minh regiment against the French, not as a nationalist fighting colonialism but as a hard-core Communist. He makes all the decisions on policy in our GWOA and reports directly to Hanoi. Taking him from the Communists will deprive them of one of their best and most vigorous men.”
Smith paused, reached down onto his seat, and held up a sketch of a surly, shock-haired Oriental. “This is Pham Son Ti. As soon as Acbat has infiltrated our asset, Ton”—Smith gestured at a Vietnamese in the second row—“will immediately start planning with the underground the abduction of Mr. Ti. As soon as we grab him we’ll send him back to the SFOB for interrogation on how they direct and control the population in the Communist North, and how they guard against infiltrators moving around the countryside—the biggest problem facing us.”