by Morris Ray
In the FOB, Allen was seldom given to levity. Dead serious, he understood that at any moment trouble could rear its ugly head. His mien never restricted subordinates from enjoying a bit of humor, just that he never joined in while teams where in the field. There’s an old military saying, “It’s lonely at the top.” Although Allen could appear lonely when Delta was in the FOB, others witnessed his sense of humor after they rotated back to Nha Trang. Around headquarters, after duty hours, he could be witty, and like many others, a practical joker. As a good commander, he understood he had to alleviate combat tensions and pressures.37 That might account for why Allen often overlooked some of the men’s shenanigans when they were on stand-down.
Left to Right: MAJ Charles “Bruiser” Allen, Project Delta Commanding Officer; CPT Ken Naumann; CPT Willis F. Larabee; Nha Trang, Vietnam, 1967. (Photo courtesy of Anita Allen)
Of the Delta men who served with him, few would deny he was the best commander in Project Delta history. Never one to avoid the fighting when he had men in combat, Bruiser Allen usually showed up, either in the air or on the ground, during every operation and as a result, he was frequently decorated for bravery. In the A Shau Valley alone, during Operation Samurai I and Samurai II, he was awarded the Silver Star and Air Medal (ARCM/v) for valor. Under his tenure as Operations Officer, and subsequently as Commander of Project Delta, the organization became one of the most decorated units in Vietnam and won acclaim for its operational capabilities. Under his leadership, Project Delta was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation, Valorous Unit Award, Meritorious Unit Citation, Navy Unit Commendation, Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry with Palm, Civic Action Medal 1st Class and the Civic Action Honor Medal.
Author Jim Morris, a retired Special Forces major, states his most vivid memory of Allen was flying with him in his C&C ship on a mission to lift a Road Runner team out of the jungle. Allen’s radio was connected simultaneously to the chopper crew; the team on the ground; his Vietnamese counterpart, MAJ Haun; to Bill Larrabee, his operations officer; and to the other Slicks and gunships in the extraction team. Allen sat in one door with an M-60 machinegun suspended from a bungee cord in front of him. Larrabee sat in the opposite door with a similar rig. Their call signs were written in gold script on the backs of their helmets. Allen’s was “Bruiser,” Larrabee’s, “Joker.”
Morris recalls the extraction of that Road Runner team as amazing to watch. Three gunships circled the team on the ground, pouring machinegun and rocket fire into the jungle while the NVA tried to kill the team. The first extraction ship eased down onto the jungle in the center of the gunships’ orbit. They lifted out three of the team with McGuire Rigs; another extraction chopper got the other three. 38
All the time, Allen was talking, directing the extraction; the chattering M-60 like a toy in his hands, never letting up once. He could have run the whole operation from the FOB like some others had done, or at an altitude of several thousand feet, but these were his guys; this is where he wanted to be.
Allen recognized his men—Rangers, Nungs, chopper pilots, crews, FACs and recon teams—were head and shoulders above others. He seemed to have a particular affinity toward his Recon guys; perhaps for who they were—had to be—to accomplish the work for which they had volunteered. He knew that without Recon, Project Delta would not exist. He knew brave men would always be available to lead an Airborne Ranger assault, more than the few uniquely qualified to run small unit recon patrols deep inside enemy territory under the enemy’s nose. For those missions, his needs were for strong-minded, nerves-of-steel leaders, who possessed the rare ability to silently seek out the enemy, live in their back-yard, fight like demons when cornered—and have the guts to return, again and again. Allen understood it took a special breed of men to know they’d be dropped into areas others chose for high enemy force concentrations, and with limited intelligence on their disposition, to find and destroy them. It was difficult enough to drop them in, but then to expect them to roam about collecting information, maintain secrecy and return alive was asking a lot. That they would do it time after time was extraordinary; and this was only the basics of Delta’s recon. Allen respected that.
In remembrance of Major Charles Allen, Project Delta’s revered coin has been inscribed with the words he made famous: “Break contact....continue mission!” (Courtesy of Project Delta website)
“It’s not like the Korean War,” Allen said. “I mean, going on patrol overnight with thirty-five others; maybe you’d make contact and maybe you wouldn’t. Recon is a whole lot different; you’re completely cut off, isolated from any type of support, particularly during hours of darkness or bad weather—during those times, your support wasn’t there at all.39
“Nobody got assigned to recon outright. The FNG was first designated for interview, then he’d stay with the recon guys for three, four or five days. At the end of that time, if those guys thought he was a good enough Joe, they’d say, ‘Okay sir, we’d like to take him out.’ And that’s even after I, the CO, had already said, ‘Hey, I want to take this guy and put him in recon.’ If they didn’t want him for any reason after a couple patrols, I’d back them up.”
During an interview, Allen once queried author Jim Morris: “Remember Doc Simpson, my recon leader? I had a lot of faith in Doc and if he’d said, ‘Everyone else thinks this guy is okay, but I really don’t think he’s gonna make it,’ then I wouldn’t accept him for recon.”
Allen reinforced that if he still thought the guy was good, but just didn’t seem to have the capacity for recon, he’d be reassigned to the Rangers or the Road Runners. He realized not everyone possessed the skills for recon operations. It wasn’t an indictment of their abilities— just a fact. That is not to say that recon members didn’t bounce back and forth between the other entities frequently.
“Was Recon then, pretty much the elite, within the elite, within the elite?” Morris asked.
“Yeah,” Allen said, “it was almost the sole reason for Delta’s existence.”40
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Shortly before his death, Jim Tolbert, a decorated veteran who had served multiple Project Delta tours, wrote that of the seventeen commanders in Delta’s brief history, he’d served with eight. These were the brightest and best officers, the most select Special Forces Commanders; they all had the innate ability to accomplish the most difficult with limited resources. By Tolbert’s account, and endorsed by many of his comrades, by far, Bruiser Allen was the best— “head and shoulders” above the rest.
In 2003, at the age of 71, LTC Charles A. “Bruiser” Allen, extraordinary commander and Project Delta legend, died at Cape Fear Valley Hospital in Fayetteville, North Carolina. It was a sad day for his small, much beloved warrior brotherhood. Their loss was profound.
36 James Tolbert. “Chuck Allen and Delta.” http://projectdelta.net/allen_story.htm
37 Jerry D. Estenson. Perceptions of Critical Leadership Attributes, 52.
38 Jim Morris. A Giant of a Man, (short story), June 29, 2006, 4-5.
39 Jim Morris.” Interview with the Big ‘Un,’ Part 3,” Soldier of Fortune Magazine, Sept. 1981, 47.
40 Ibid.
TWENTY
Bad Luck B-52
NON COMMISIONED OFFICER JIM TOLBERT was one of many to tout their time with Project Delta as the best days of their lives, particularly while MAJ Chuck Allen was the Commander. Because it was “acquired” while Allen was in command, Tolbert liked to tell this tale of the bad-news jeep, which he called “Chuck Allen’s jeep,” even though it remained each successive commander’s vehicle until Delta’s demise in 1970. He claimed that it’s a known fact that some people seem to be more accident prone than others. Airborne and Special Forces units soon weed them out; it’s clear they would end up somewhere. But in the civilian world, it never seemed to matter. Tolbert wondered if ever a piece of equipment might also be accident prone. He thought Project Delta had just such an item—“Chuck Allen’s jeep”—bumper number “Delta B-52.”
When
entering the compound at Nha Trang, visitors always noticed the beautifully maintained quarter-ton jeep sitting in front of the orderly room. It had classy, freshly-stenciled numbers, a like-new paint job and a spotless tarp-roof. It seems this well looked-after jeep, however, had a curse on it—that is, if one could think a piece of equipment might be cursed. Wrecked at least once during every stand-down, it spent a lot of time in the motor pool repair shop, especially at the start of every operation. In fact, it was there so frequently just before nearly every operation that superstition soon set in. Whenever the men prepared to leave on a mission, they’d check to see if the jeep was in for maintenance. If so, it would be a good trip for everyone.
Who wrecked it? No one seemed to know. Major Allen was the only one with authority to drive it. Still, the inevitable seemed to always happen; twisted out of shape, it would be sitting in the motor pool. If some of Doc Simpson’s recon didn’t steal it for a night downtown, then Krelick’s Rangers would. And if not the Rangers, then one of Gilbert’s commo crew or some of Stanfield’s crazy Nungs. On every stand-down, someone would manage to slip it out, and before the night was over, wreck it. The following morning, just as mysteriously, it would show up in front of the Commander’s office, skewed sideways, a fender or two missing, or its front grill caved in. Sergeant Major “Crash” Whalen, raised hell constantly about that jeep, but Allen never once mentioned it.
Since Delta’s activation, the Philippine motor pool tech-rep records documented old “B-52” had been wrecked more than twenty-four times. With its extensive maintenance history, they could’ve easily created an additional slot to care for just this one piece of equipment; Allen could have had his own personal pit crew. Despite all its care, Allen never drove it; perhaps he too felt it was cursed. When discovered in an ill state of repair, no one ever admitted to driving it, but just like clockwork, early in the morning as stand-down ended, there it would be, parked in front of the orderly room, tore all to shit. It drove the SGM crazy, but it kept the tech-rep guys busy. Many still believe that George Pruett should’ve left that damned jeep in Cam Ranh Bay from where he’d originally stolen it.
Tolbert recalled the jeep’s fateful last day. It was a beautiful day, the sky blue, full of cumulous cotton-ball clouds, with nary a trace of rain predicted. Walking back from downtown Nha Trang, Tolbert had just reached Dong So Ba, Number 3 Street. A loud noise startled him and he looked up; over the bay a DC-3 was spewing flames from the tail section, struggling to make that final mile to reach land. Air Vietnam, coined “Air Nouc Mam” (nuoc mam is a pungent fish sauce), had a bunch of the old DC-3 rejects. For the most part, they’d been fairly well maintained and air-worthy, but it was clear this one was in serious trouble. So intently had he been watching the floundering plane that Tolbert nearly failed to see Allen’s bad-luck jeep as it sped by. It was heading the same direction as the plane. The pilot apparently couldn’t decide whether he should land or pull up to make another pass.
A compacted dirt road led to the Delta compound; it separated Nha Trang Airbase from CIDG (Civilian Irregular Defense Group) village at the end of the main runway. The road curve, where it approached the end of the runway, had been elevated six to eight feet higher to protect the Delta compound from grazing fire, should the VC decide to attack the village. Coiled rolls of razor wire, three feet high, had been pegged down near the runway, while a cluster of cardboard and tin shacks bordered the other, forming CIDG village. From the Delta compound, school children could often be heard playing.
As Tolbert watched the aircraft’s plight, his eyes gravitated toward Allen’s shiny jeep as it approached the road at the end of the runway. Years later, the fact that Tolbert hadn’t been offered a ride by Allen’s VN driver had dogged him; he’d been grateful the offer hadn’t been made. It also seemed perplexing as to why the driver hadn’t noticed something as large as an airplane, all lit up like a Roman candle, traveling a hundred miles an hour straight at him. In any event, like two horses, neck and neck, “Air Nuoc Mam” and Allen’s ill-fated “B-52” raced toward their destiny. The DC3 bounced twice, its engines strained, fire shooting from the passenger section. Managing to clear the raised roadway by inches, it dragged razor wire, picket fence posts and “B-52” along, then exploded in a ball of fire into the school—an instant inferno engulfed the area.
Horrified, Tolbert broke into a dead run, but by the time he reached the area, nothing could be done. The flames were so intense he couldn’t get within thirty yards of the crash site. He could only watch helplessly as passengers still strapped in their seats waved frantically, crying out as they burned. For years he could recall the odor of burning flesh—and the screams.
“B-52” had made its last dispatch. Even the adaptable little techreps wouldn’t be able to repair it this time. Never again would it be stolen from the compound, and never again used to gauge the success of an upcoming operation. There would be no more joy-rides into Nha Trang, no more ass-chewing by Fuller. What remained was carted off as salvage. An unknown number of Vietnamese died the day “B-52” made its last run, including an American entangled in the razor wire as the plane dragged it across the road. Tolbert always struggled to recall the American’s name, but after years of uncertainty, D.J. Taylor told him it had been Special Forces SFC Richard V. Williams, recently assigned to Project Delta. The DC-3 occupants were all killed, the CIDG School was leveled and, with only a few exceptions, all the children perished. The group got mighty drunk that evening in the Delta Club.
Steve Adams in “B-52,” MAJ Allen’s ill-fated jeep. (Photo courtesy of Steve Adams)
* * * * * *
Soldiers have a saying, “There are no atheists in a foxhole.” Most Special Forces soldiers served with airborne divisions before joining SF, and many soldiers regularly attended Sunday services and offered grace before eating even a can of C-rations. Yet, Delta veterans contend they have a hard time recalling anyone saying a prayer, whether in combat or garrison, in good health or when dying. Not that these good men were atheists, but perhaps they’d just come to the conclusion that a good plan and a clean weapon would do just as well. Or maybe they were just pre-occupied with staying alive.
Typically, whenever an SF soldier was killed in combat, the 5th Special Forces Group Commander would call a mandatory formation and march the survivors to the nearest chapel. This was not the case if a Delta buddy fell; survivors were much more likely to be seen at the nearest watering hole, ordering an extra beer for the deceased and drinking it before it got warm. Any of them could be next, and that’s how they wanted to be remembered. Delta men showed their respect— or disrespect—when others were alive; after they were gone, church services didn’t mean all that much.
The number one rule: “Never let your buddy down!” was lived up to, or guys were shown the door in short order. Ironically, some Delta veterans, once renowned as rowdy, tough hell-raisers, embraced religion later in life.
* * * * * *
The year 1967 would close with Operation Sultan I and II—operations in the valleys of Plei Trap and Plei Djereng to support the 4th Infantry Division. Action continued until January 1968. The 81st Airborne Ranger Battalion USSF advisors were particularly bloodied during both operations. Team Sergeant Samuel S. Theriault was the first to be killed, and numerous awards for bravery were won for heroic actions. First Lieutenant Charley Ford received a second Silver Star while SSG Herbert Siugzda was awarded the BSMV and received his second and third combat wounds, which earned him two more Purple Hearts. Others awarded the BSMV were: 1LT Richard N. Ellis, 1LT William G. Wentz, (also a Purple Heart), SFC Larry L. Sites, SGT Frederick A. Walz and SGT George D. Cole. Major Willis D. Jones, 1LT Edwin Livingston and MSG James G. Kreilick were each awarded an ARCMV; SP4 Russell C. Cooper won an AMV.
TWENTY-ONE
Men of Courage and Honor
AFTER THE 281 ST AHC WAS ATTACHED to Project Delta for direct support, Delta cut back on support from other organizations. Once the 281st AHC absorbed the 17
1st Aviation Company (including the original 145th Airlift Platoon), that unit became deeply ingrained with Delta as support camaraderie deepened; the men’s bravery reflected that closeness. As for the Project Delta command group, they relished having their own U.S. helicopter assets, which enabled them to curtail relying on external aviation loans. That practice resulted in some negative operational experiences.
During Operation War Bonnet out of An Hoa, for example, the 281st extracted a recon team under intense fire. Ken Wagner recalled they had a much more positive outcome with the 281st. He was still chafed about the operation where Jerry Nelson had to resort to threats just so the pilot would slow down enough to rescue Morales from a suspended ladder.
Wagner was recovery NCO in a Slick, hoping to spot one of their recon teams standing by for extraction. They’d been on a five-day “dry hole” (having had no enemy contact) west of Thong Duc. Out for nearly a week, just as they began their ascent up the rope ladder, the enemy opened up from a ridgeline 200 meters above them. The hovering helicopter, helpless to evade the heavy ground fire, took about twenty hits, shuddering violently as each bullet ripped through it. Two accompanying gunships swarmed in quickly, suppressing the fire with an unrelenting hail of mini-gun fire. This time, there’d be no repeating what Nelson and Morales had experienced. These were members of the 281st AHC—attached to Project Delta. They knew every one of those guys on the ground. The pilot steadied the craft, seemingly impervious to the assault. Hovering smoothly while bullets tore holes in his chopper, shards of Plexiglas and metal fragments pierced his face just below his helmet visor. Although bleeding profusely, he pulled pitch only after Wagner assured him the entire team was loaded. His passengers were treated to one wild tree-top ride to the safety of the FOB, but they all got out. That remarkable 281st AHC pilot was CPT Peterson.