The Ether Zone: U.S. Army Special Forces Detachment B-52, Project Delta

by Morris Ray

  Park knew all the men out there, and when he learned SSG Charles Newton was on the team in jeopardy, it hit him hard. Newton was a handsome blond youth from Texas, on his second tour with Delta. In January, he was wounded while on recon and after a short stint in the Long Binh Hospital, he was sent to the States on a thirty-day convalescent leave. He arrived in his home town with a chest full of medals, including his second Bronze Star for valor, Air Medal and Purple Heart. His dress uniform trousers tucked neatly inside glossy paratrooper jump-boots, green beret cocked jauntily to the side, he was a sharp and dashing figure. In May, he married a pretty, hometown gal—two months later, he returned to Vietnam. On 22 March 1969, Charles Newton wrote home that he’d be leaving Delta’s headquarters in Nha Trang for Phu Bai in a few days, he’d be out one to three months and not to worry if he didn’t write for a while. The team’s last radio contact said, “We’re in a stream bed, surrounded and we’re hit bad!” Charlie Newton wouldn’t be going back to Texas.

  The BDA Platoon—Delta’s ferocious Nung mercenaries—with one American advisor per squad, airlifted to within 300 meters of the besieged team, but could go no further due to the overwhelming enemy force seemingly determined to have their way with the trapped team. The Nungs lost five of their thirty-man contingent in less than fifteen minutes. Receiving Solomon’s report, LTC Parks ordered two of his Airborne Ranger companies to join the Nungs and try and break through from a different direction. After successfully completing an air assault and persisting against several enemy counterattacks for hours, they combed the area, but signs of RT-3 were never found; the entire team seemed to have simply vanished into the muggy jungle air.

  Reports that the three missing Americans were POWs began to surface almost immediately. For years, rumors have persisted. All three Americans and the three Vietnamese are still carried on the Army’s roles as Missing in Action. On 16 December 1969, five months after Charles Newton was declared MIA, the U.S. Army promoted him to sergeant first class.

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  Meanwhile, Park had other problems. Recon Team-2 was also under heavy attack; the team’s garbled messages told him young SSG Thomas K. Long, whom Park had also known personally, had been killed, more had been wounded. The operation was in deep trouble; he had to get the rest of his boys out of that damned valley. Those who served with him said Al Park was a dedicated, caring leader, usually mild and quiet, except when his men were under fire. He was well-liked and considered a good commander. After tearing into the Nungs and Rangers for failing to get one team safely out, he was determined the same thing wouldn’t happen to RT-2. This time, he’d go himself.

  The remainder of SSG Long’s recon team was holed up in thick, triple-canopy jungle on the side of a mountain, calling for immediate extraction as the enemy moved in for the kill. They had wounded, couldn’t carry them and would not leave them. A squad of 101st Airborne helicopters and Park’s C&C chopper headed out to pick them up. When LTC Park arrived in the C&C ship, two of the 101st choppers were already engaging the enemy forces, while two Slicks had extracted RT-2 by McGuire Rig. It was evident that both the recovery ships and the two gun ships were taking extremely heavy fire from a well-concealed enemy. As Park watched, one of the gunships rolled onto to its side and fell to earth. As the aviation fuel ignited, it disappeared in a huge ball of fire. A 281st AHC Slick arrived on site and began to engage the enemy with its M-60 machineguns.

  The pilot of the 101st recovery ship transmitted the good news. “We’ve got ‘em all except for the two KIAs.”

  “Then get the hell out of there,” Park said, cringing as he thought about the handsome young trooper lying dead in the jungle below him. “Sergeant Long won’t mind now,” he said softly into the handset. One thing was for sure: he was determined to come back and get his dead out, whatever it took.

  Returning to the FOB near Hue, Park immediately dispatched the third Ranger Company to go back in for his KIA; they sustained several wounded while recovering the body of SSG Thomas Long. During the evening, Solomon would receive an unusual situation report that baffles everyone to this day. Recon Team 6 reported observing twelve VC in black pajamas and pith helmets, walking northwest, all carrying AK-47s. In the center, a Caucasian female, attired in white shirt and dark pants, her shirt tucked in, moved freely among them. Her clothing clean, neat and freshly pressed, she wore no headgear. Her hair was shoulder-length and strawberry blond; her skin smooth and fair. She probably weighed between 140 to 145 lbs, stood 5’6” tall and, according to the team, had a large bust (the FOB staff aptly noted remarks about the team’s detailed description on this one point). She appeared at ease among her companions and the surroundings, under no apparent duress. This was one of the strangest intelligence reports of the war—who was this mystery woman? No one ever knew for sure, but over the next few months she was seen several more times. The troops dubbed her “Jane,” alluding to another infamous Vietnam era female.

  Only three days later, Park was back over the same area, circling in his C&C ship, watching while another 101st Airborne Division helicopter attempted to recover one of his teams from the elephant grass on a densely vegetated small knoll. The recovery helicopter had been flying substantially lower than the steep hills on either side, and in this situation, the enemy sharpshooters had been firing down at it. It was clear the 101st guys were taking a lot of hits. The chopper violently lurched and broke off its run, the co-pilot’s hoarse voice heard over the radio.

  “He’s hit! My pilot’s been hit in the jaw! We’re breaking off— returning to the FOB for medical treatment.”

  “Go,” Parks affirmed, as another 101st chopper dropped toward the LZ to take his place. It hovered just briefly, and then the pilot pulled pitch and shot away, gliding off in the direction of Hue Phu Bai.

  “They got ‘em,” his C&C pilot relayed, starting to follow. The 101st pilot suddenly cut in on his radio.

  “Sorry. We thought we got them all, but we’re one short. I say again, we are one short. Our headcount shows someone was left on the LZ.”

  One of Park’s senior recon men performing as recovery NCO on another, just arriving, 281st AHC Slick, quickly broke in. “Get the team out of here. We’ll go back and take a look.”

  “It’s not an American who was left, if that means anything,” the 101st pilot continued. “It’s one of the little people.”

  “That don’t mean a thing,” Park heard his recovery NCO say. “He’s one of our little people, and we’re going back in to get him.”

  “I’ve never been more proud of my guys than I was that day,” Park said. “I can’t even remember the name of that recovery NCO, but just hearing him say that...well, it didn’t matter. If you were one of ours, we didn’t leave you behind.”

  Park directed his C&C pilot to fly low so the door gunner could place covering fire on the enemy’s position. In amazement, he watched as the 281st pilot flew within a few feet of the ground, using the chopper’s blade-wash to separate the tall grass to spot their lost Vietnamese recon man. The young pilot, impervious to the automatic fire peppering his helicopter, made several ground level passes, the grass parting sufficiently to expose a small crumpled form, lying motionless in the grass. Delta’s recovery NCO never hesitated. Leaping out, he ran through the intense automatic fire, picked up the wounded man, and carried him back, loading him inside. Safely inside, the pilot took that bird straight up as if shot from a cannon.

  At the FOB, more than twenty hits had been counted in the craft, but miraculously no one else was wounded. It was the kind of bravery that often resulted in medals for those involved, but none were ever mentioned and none asked for. While the names of the 281st AHC crew, to include the courageous recovery NCO who refused to leave a Delta brother behind, have been lost to history. It’s certain they’d say they were “just doing their job.”

  Project Delta Commanders USSF MAJ Al Park (right) and VNSF MAJ Haun. Operation Cass Park, 1969. (Photo courtesy of Colonel Alan Park)

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  During the operation’s twenty-eight days, 29 March to 25 April, 1969, Project Delta suffered five killed, thirty-three wounded and eleven missing, including those lost from Recon Team-6 and Road Runner Team-1. Lieutenant Colonel Alan Park was diagnosed with hepatitis, August 1969, and medivac’ed to the United States to recover.

  SSG Rene Cardenas (left) and SFC Joe Schinkelberger, Phu Bai, 1969. The highly respected Schinkelberger was one of the most reliable and savvy recon men in B-52 Project Delta. (Photo courtesy of D.J. Taylor)

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Conex Boogie

  WHILE SOME OPERATIONS LASTED FOR A FEW DAYS, others ran in increments of up to a month. A few sort of merged as enemy concentrations were discovered in areas previously thought to be relatively clear. This had been the case for a series of operations when Project Delta, MAJ Ben Aiken, commanding, began running recon missions supporting the 3rd Marine Division, Operation Trojan Horse in the Vuong River Valley. Delta ran their missions out of Mai Loc from 8 August 1969 to 9 November 1969. Situated in the utmost northwestern corner of South Vietnam, the FOB was set up across the airstrip from the front gate of Special Forces Operational Detachment A-101, referred to as the “Window to the North.”

  Since the A-team’s camp had been plagued by thefts, deceptions and local insurgent attacks, it wasn’t long before rockets, small arms and mortars were being directed at the Delta FOB, helicopter pads and any arriving or departing aircraft. A group of Delta volunteers, led by DJ Taylor, arrived in September to run “wet” operations, training for what Steve Carpenter called, “the real thing” in either A Shau Valley or the Khe Sanh area. On one of their initial patrols, the volunteers encountered a small group engaged in stowing arms and ammo they pilfered from the A Detachment’s Mai Loc base camp. A hot confrontation ensued and Tom Crosby was shot in the neck. If not for the brilliant action by Special Forces medic Dennis McVey, who managed to clamp a severed artery and control his bleeding, Crosby would have quickly bled to death.

  Al Schwarcbher, who already had served a combat tour with the 101st Airborne Division and had seen action in the Dominican Republic with the 82nd Airborne, was on the team sent in to gain recon experience. Taylor, the recon team’s One Zero, was given the mission to locate a VC band that had been sending sappers into the perimeter and had previously killed two U.S. Army support personnel at Mai Loc. The second day out, they heard voices. Since Schwarcbher had combat experience, Taylor sent him forward to check it out. Upon returning, he began to remove hand grenades from his pouch.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Taylor asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “There’s a big bunch of VC bathing in the creek just ahead, and I’m going to fire ‘em up.”

  Taylor laughed. “Al, you’re not in the 101st Airborne anymore. Quit thinking like a conventional guy. The object is to capture at least one alive for the intelligence we may get.”

  All the VC died anyway, including the one Taylor hoped to take as a POW. “You guys have to curb your enthusiasm a bit,” was all he said.

  In the fall, I Corps’ weather deteriorated so badly aircraft couldn’t support Delta’s mission. The low cloud cover, steady rain and high winds forced Delta’s commander to stand-down for a couple weeks, back to Nha Trang. This window would give him time to straighten out some conventional unit credibility problems that persisted with their support to the recon teams. The conventional unit COs didn’t want to believe, or react to, the real-time information the teams had been calling in from the field. That meant the recon teams would be left out on a limb, vulnerable to enemy reaction forces. Furthermore, the FOB couldn’t be left unattended and unguarded for that long, so four young recon guys volunteered to remain behind, along with an Airborne Ranger company, to keep an eye on things. Those volunteers were SSG Jim Thornton, SGT Chester Howard, SGT Bob “Archie” Inscore and SGT Steve Carpenter.

  SGT Steve Carpenter (left) and his brother, SGT Derick Carpenter. (Photo courtesy of Steve Carpenter)

  Steve Carpenter and his brother Derick were the only set of brothers to ever serve on Project Delta. While they both ran with recon teams during 1969, Doc Simpson’s rules were simple: the brothers were not permitted to run recon on the same team, be in the field at the same time or together accompany Nungs or Rangers on immediate reaction missions. So, for the most part, the Carpenter brothers’ missions were routine; which meant exciting, dangerous and, at times, very frightening. Steve Carpenter recalled that neither he nor his brother had ever been involved in any epic engagements that might turn the tide of the war; they just continued to volunteer for missions, and “did their jobs.”

  Steve remained with his three buddies to secure the FOB until their return. This was a typical FOB compound; a few tents to house recon teams, Headquarters staff and Commo Section, the briefing tent and another tent used for the Tactical Operations Center (TOC)—all within the inner-wire perimeter. The FOB’s perimeter, multiple coils of concertina wire, some “noise makers” and a few Claymore mines, had been placed around the compound at strategic locations. They’d dug a mortar pit close to the Recon tent area, near metal conex containers used to store rations and equipment. The Rangers set up defensive positions around the FOB. As “stay-behinds,” their routine was simple: man the TOC 24/7, conduct a few random inspections for security each day and night and spend the rest of the time drinking beer, staying dry and playing cards. Often, the day’s high point might be lifting cargo pallets to determine how many venomous snakes had sought refuge from the wet weather.

  One evening as Jim Thornton manned the TOC, Howard, Inscore and Carpenter were aroused by small arms fire and radio traffic from the Ranger company. They were requesting immediate fire support. As a qualified mortar man, Carpenter grabbed his weapon and web gear, ran to the mortar pit, un-wrapped it and positioned the tube for use. Howard climbed to the top of the conex container to better observe the defenses and relay the radio’s fire requests. The dilemma was that Howard’s position placed him directly in line between Carpenter’s mortar tube and the target. When Howard called out a range, Carpenter made sight adjustments, shouted, “Fire in the hole,” and dropped a round down the tube. A mortar is an indirect-fire weapon; meaning the round is designed to travel in a high, arching trajectory toward its target, passing well overhead of friendly troops in its path. After several revolutions out of the tube, the projectile loses the locking pin on the detonator and arms itself, and upon striking something solid, it explodes. Although Howard was directly in its path, there was no reason to believe he wouldn’t be safe from its flight.

  The first round, a white phosphorous illumination round, exited the tube with a disturbingly loud “bloop,” traveling in extreme slow motion the twenty feet to where Chester Howard perched on his conex. Stunned, he watched it head toward him like a slow-pitch softball until it hit the side, just inches below his feet. Carpenter recalled how Howard’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates as he stammered through several exclamatory expressions, replete with four letter expletives. Carpenter laughed at the surreal sight of Howard’s high step dance on top of the container visible amid the strobe light flashes of the ensuing firefight.

  All right, so it was a bad round. Couldn’t happen again, right? Carpenter charged yet another round and dropped it—with the same result. By then, the very excited Ranger at the other end of the radio began to call for high-explosive rounds. ASAP! On the surface it appeared the WP rounds must have been exposed to moisture, or the high humidity had caused them to malfunction. So Carpenter complied with the Ranger’s high explosive request, dropping yet another round down the tube. This time, the round actually hit the conex higher, closer to Howard than the first two. Of course, Howard was still doing his boogie, stringing together some of the most colorful diatribes ever heard by man. This was remarkable, because some of those recon guys could really cuss! By now, Carpenter held his sides, laughing so hard he could barely prepare another round to fire. He could hear Archie Inscor
e’s loud, distinctive laughter from somewhere behind them; both nearly hysterical with laughter. Rubbing the tears from his eyes and trying to catch his breath, Carpenter grabbed a pinch bar and opened a brand new box of mortar rounds—and began again. This time they fired like they were supposed to. After fifteen minutes of alternating illumination and high explosive rounds around the perimeter, the brief but intensive firefight was over. Eleven rounds lay at the base of the conex where Howard stood, his legs shaking, the charges rendered useless by humidity and rain. The excitement apparently over, Inscore and Carpenter still laughed so hard they rolled in the mud. Chester Howard climbed down from his perch, watched them for a minute or two and then joined in on the muddy ground. There wasn’t much to laugh about in Vietnam, so when an opportunity arose it had to be done.

  They gathered at the pit again the next morning to ascertain their next move. Unexploded mortar rounds can be very unstable, so they cautiously transported the unexpended mortar rounds to the bottom of a deep gully, neatly stacking them on five pounds of C-4 composite explosives. Rigging a thirty minute delayed fuse, they retreated to the recon area to wait it out. The four cracked open beers and sat on a cot, wondering aloud about just how big a bang it would make. They weren’t the only ones impressed by the magnitude of the explosion, not to mention the large mushroom cloud it produced. Within minutes a jet out of Quang Tri flew over at low altitude, asking if they’d been nuked. Thornton replied sardonically, “Nope...just a couple kids having fun.”