We didn’t see or hear anything that seemed suspicious until we came to a wide stream, maybe a thousand yards from the little hill where the old fort was located. As the point squad started across, a single automatic weapon clattered a red stream of death at us. If the enemy gunner had been only a little more patient, he could have greased the whole bunch of us in the middle of the water. As it was, he killed one of the strikers and wounded another very slightly in the hand.
In an instant, nearly everyone on our side dropped to the ground and opened up. The VC over there must have been scared half to death, or shot to hell, or both; when we cautiously crossed the stream, the night remained quiet. By that time, the light from the star shells helped illuminate the ground in front of us, but the flickering light made every bush come alive, every tree seem a threatening, half-visible menace. Detailing a couple of men to carry the KIA, we moved as quickly as possible, using the trees and brush for cover, toward the hill. But it sounded as if the shooting had lost some of its previous intensity.…
A Presidio Press Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1999 by Thomas P. Nicholson
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Presidio Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Presidio Press and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.presidiopress.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-78818-4
v3.1
To my dearest wife, Sandra, without whose love, support, encouragement, and assistance, it would never have happened
To my son, Tim, now serving in the army, following in my footsteps, of whom I am very proud
To my old Marine buddy, Dan Guenther, who said I should do it in case someone might be interested
Most of all, to those brave men who we lost there, who will remain forever young in my memory
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
1 Welcome Back to the War, or It’s a Dirty Job, but Somebody’s Gotta Do It
2 Big Boy Toys, or The Collecting Game
3 Christmas Visits, or A Season of Joy and Tragedy
4 A Visit to Bon Hai, or Momma, Your Baby’s Sick
5 Jose O’Connor’s Last Laugh, or Never Enough of a Good Thing
6 Who Was That Guy? or Mud Marine Hero
7 Now That’s Scared, or Hazards in the Bush
8 An Easy Month in the War, or I Could R & R Forever
9 Swizzle Dick Swanson, or Fifteen Minutes of Fame
10 Wallaby’s Coming, or Put the Steaks on the Barbie, Mate
11 Angel Flight, or The Meaning of Sacrifice
12 Bomb Damage Assessments, or Run for Your Life, Charlie Brown
13 Pie (Plate) in the Sky, or Where Do You Pee, up in a Tree?
14 POW Snatch, or Going for the Gold
15 Operation Dipstick, or The Raid on the Pipeline
16 Hell on a Hilltop, or Fire from the Sky
17 Road Kill, or Starlight Snipers at Work
18 Truck Thumpers, or Take a Life, Give a Life
19 Say So Long to Sandy, or Losing the High-Tech War
20 Marble Mountain Graveyard, or Time to Go Home
Map 1. Republic of Vietnam
Map 2. I Corps Detail
1
Welcome Back to the War
or
It’s a Dirty Job, but Somebody’s Gotta Do It
The air was sticky—humid and hot, just as I remembered—as I stepped off the big silver bird chartered from Pan Am. There was the same old familiar smell; rotted vegetation, sewage, and burned jet exhaust, all fighting for nauseous supremacy. “Hell,” I grumbled to myself, “what’d you expect? This is Vietnam, you ain’t been gone that long, trooper.”
My thoughts returned to the scene at the airport in St. Louis. My young wife, our two little ones in her arms, all sobbing as I climbed on the plane that was to carry me away from all I loved. I doubt if the boys understood what was going on, they were so young, but the tears being shed by their mother had both of the youngsters wailing away. The sight is etched in my memory forever, all three of my loved ones’ faces contorted with grief and streaked with tears. I thought my heart was going to break as well. I sat down next to a grandmotherly woman, who wisely looked away while I wiped the tears from my eyes and attempted to compose myself.
“Going off to Vietnam, son?” she finally asked. The polite question gave me a chance to talk, if I wanted to.
I didn’t. So I just nodded and turned my face to the window, staring at the white clouds floating beneath the plane. She never said another word to me the rest of the trip to San Francisco. Bless her kind heart.
After a time, as the miles between my family and me increased, the lump in my throat diminished enough to allow me to suppress the almost physical pain of leaving. I was to spend the next fifteen months endeavoring to hold back the persistent nausea of separation. Any time I let it surface, the hurt was back, sharp and heart-wrenching as the day I left.
I inhaled again the distinctive odor of Vietnam. To this day, I can recall the smell; it has soaked into my memory like sewage on a sponge. I squinted in the harsh sunlight around the concrete apron of the massive air base at Cam Ranh Bay, Republic of South Vietnam. I was a young captain in the U.S. Army arriving for my second tour of duty. I was lean and mean, the product of a refresher course at the Jungle School in Panama, the Canal Zone, and anxious to find out what I would be doing the second time around. I had served the first tour as executive officer in a Special Forces A-team in the Central Highlands of South Vietnam. I had seen the elephant (been under enemy fire), as the old army saying went, and was ready to boss some men in combat, the most challenging assignment to which an army captain could aspire.
A continuous relay of F-4 Phantom fighter planes streaked off the hot concrete runway and into the harsh, blue sky, the jet engines’ roar drowning out any hope of conversation, their sooty, black exhaust drifting away with the slight breeze. The 230 men with me, and a single female soldier, shuffled toward a concrete-block building with a red sign over the door: 2023D PORT AUTHORITY, WELCOME TO SOUTH VIETNAM. Underneath a smaller sign read: NEW ARRIVALS FOLLOW THE ARROWS TO CENTRAL PROCESSING.
Sweating in the fierce sun, my group of new arrivals obeyed like mindless automatons and entered a large room at the corner of the building. An air force sergeant, his nose red from sun or booze or both, stood beside a long, wooden table, and, as soon as the door shut behind the last man, launched into a droning monologue about in-processing, how to conduct yourself, etc., etc. I don’t remember another word he said and doubt if he could have five minutes after he finished.
I glanced around at my fellow travelers, all innocent, new fresh meat for the war. Just then, somewhere else within the building, two hundred plus lucky survivors were hearing their final out-briefing, probably given by another bored sergeant, before loading aboard the plane I’d just exited. They were about to depart for a long-awaited return to the real world, the land of the big PX, the good ole U.S.A. “Oh well,” I consoled myself, “only 450 days to go, and counting.”
I had decided to extend my tour an extra three months in country. That way, I could go directly to Fort Benning, Georgia, upon my return and enter the Infantry Officers Career Course (IOCC). If I got home too early, I might be sent elsewhere for a year of troop duty, and I wanted to get IOCC behind me before I was assigned to a permanent duty station. I hoped the extra three months would be safe and quiet. My wife threatened to kill me if I got greased away during
my extension. Her tongue could be sharper than my Ranger knife. I figured I’d hear it in my grave if I made the mistake of dying in Vietnam.
Suddenly, the bored NCO’s voice cut through my musings. “All air force personnel to Room A, army to Room B, and navy-Marines to Room D. Any others to Room C. There, you will be picked up by your respective replacement battalions and taken to temporary billets while awaiting in-country assignment.”
I grabbed my duffel bag, stuffed to the brim with the essentials I needed, like socks, shorts, and a nifty Browning, 13-shot, 9mm pistol I was sneaking in country against regulations. I also had a custom-made hunting vest with extra pockets, my old jungle boots from the first tour, several sets of civvies for relaxing when away from the jungle, and a little ditty bag filled with toilet articles.
A couple of first-timers behind me were complaining to no one in particular that they already had orders assigning them to a unit.
“Don’t believe it,” I counseled, the weight of experience giving me authority to put in my two cents’ worth. “Army Command at Saigon can reassign you to anyplace you may be needed, once you arrive in country. Your orders don’t mean squat.”
Inside Room B, a sweating sergeant first class (E-7) waited for our arrival, along with several pencil-pushing clerks from the replacement depot. We handed over our orders and were herded to army-green buses outside the door. At the repple depot, located at the far end of the runway, I wasted little time getting under a long, cool shower and into the cot assigned me, with its draped mosquito netting and clean sheets. If I ended up in the 4th Infantry Division, as my orders stated, I’d see little of either for a long time.
I reported to Officer Assignments early the next morning. To my delight, the personnel major in charge of infantry officers asked me if I wanted to go back to the 5th Special Forces Group. “They’ve had a few unforeseen casualties and are asking for SF-qualified officers.”
“Yes, sir!” I was so elated, I nearly shouted. I had hoped to be able to transfer after six months with the 4th Division, but this was better yet. I felt I belonged in Special Forces; the 4th Infantry Division was for grunts, mud-pounders, junglehumpers. I was Airborne Special Forces, a cut above such a mundane assignment. Besides, we got to wear the nifty green beret instead of the standard, army-issue, green baseball cap.
The next morning, well before sunrise, I was on the shuttle plane to Nha Trang, the headquarters of the 5th Special Forces Group, anxious to get my duty assignment for the coming year.
Was I ever disappointed. “S-5 with C Company, Pleiku,” the gray-haired older major who was the personnel officer (assistant S-1) at group headquarters told me, as he passed me my assignment orders.
I left his office numb with disbelief. S-5 meant Civil Affairs (CA). Assignment to the C-team meant higher headquarters. I’d be involved in building dispensaries and rice warehouses for villages of the local area of operations (AO) for C Company, the control headquarters for A-teams in the Central Highlands. I would be a staff puke, as far from the guns as any “Saigon cowboy,” the derogatory term we field soldiers used for the support people way to the rear. To my mind, Civil Affairs was a nothing job that involved the handling of a lot of Vietnamese money, dealing with local contractors, bribing the various district chiefs to ensure their cooperation, sending out action teams to survey potential CA projects. I wanted a combat assignment, damn it, as long as I was going to be in Vietnam. My first tour had been in a rather quiet district of central Vietnam. I had been the executive officer (XO) of the A-team assigned there, and the action had been sporadic. It made for a long and rather boring year. I wasn’t back in Vietnam to pass out tongue depressors; I wanted to shoot it out with the bad guys.
I knew the executive officer of the 5th SF Group, Lt. Col. Dan Schungel; I’d served under him at Fort Carson, Colorado, in the 5th Mechanized Division, during 1963 and ’64. Then, I’d been a gung-ho lieutenant commanding the heavy mortar platoon of his battalion, the 2/10th Mechanized Infantry. I’d worked hard for him, and I hoped he would remember that.
Screwing up my courage, I went to his office. He was happy to see me, and we made small talk for a few minutes. Finally, I made the plunge. “Sir, please help me get another assignment. I don’t want anything to do with S-5 work. There must be something else available.” I was hoping he would give me my own A-team to command, for old times’ sake.
Lieutenant Colonel Schungel’s eyes narrowed, and his displeasure was obvious. An assignment was an assignment, and a person was expected to fulfill it, to the very best of his ability. He looked over my shoulder, silent, thinking. Finally, old loyalties got the better of him, I guess. He jotted a note down on a slip of paper. “CCN called and asked for another captain just a few minutes ago. Tell the S-1 that you’ll be going to them.”
I grabbed the slip of paper. “I don’t think I know what unit that is,” I remarked. I did not remember hearing of a “CCN” the last time I was in country.
“MAC-SOG,” Lieutenant Colonel Schungel grunted. “CCN is their northernmost operation, up at Da Nang. Stands for Command and Control North, which is a cover name. You’ll get briefed about what the job is when you get there.” He turned back to the stack of papers on his desk. “Good luck, Tiger.” He smiled at me with his recruiting poster—perfect senior-officer look. “You’ll need it.”
I fairly waltzed out of the room. “MAC-SOG,” as we called it, the Military Assistance Command’s Studies and Observations Group. Super spook, black death dealers. I was going to the cream of the crop. Only the best of the SF got assigned to SOG. I couldn’t have been more pleased with myself if I had just picked the winning trifecta at Churchill Downs.
The S-1 was nursing a sunburn on his high forehead, rubbing some white grease on it when I returned. He did not like me going over him to get reassigned. Screw him, the desk puck. What did I care?
“I’ll book you out first thing tomorrow,” he grumbled. “The CIA has a daily flight from Nha Trang to various places up north. We hitch rides with them all the time.” He studied me with a slightly mystified expression the staff types reserve for a warrior, sort of a “What rock did you get raised under?” or “What happy dust you been sniffing lately?”
“Sir,” I asked suddenly, “where is CCN anyway?” Of course, to me, it really didn’t matter if the unit was stationed in hell.
The look he gave me now was one of abject scorn and maybe just a little pity. He must have thought I was out of my head from the heat. Volunteering for an assignment with a spook outfit and not having the faintest idea what it was all about.
“Da Nang, up in I Corps, Marble Mountain.” He pronounced it “Eye Corps” in the standard military way. “CCN’s just a cover name, so MAC-SOG isn’t mentioned.” I knew that, but didn’t say anything. You could see his barely repressed shudder at the mere sound of the names. He was the epitome of the professional staff officer. Happy to be as far away from the guns as possible, immersed in his paperwork, and intrigued by the psychology of anyone who thought war meant combat rather than shuffling papers.
The flight from Nha Trang to Da Nang was as smooth as silk. We touched down on another ten-thousand-foot runway built by one of the numerous American construction firms brought over from the States. I briefly wondered how the government of South Vietnam would utilize what we were going to leave behind when the war was over. Little did I know.
Four other SF troopers and I walked through the airport building toward a rickety, old, half-size school bus that had seen better days. CCN was painted in foot-high, white letters on its side. The old bus was painted jet black and had a bullet hole in the left front windshield. The silver cracks radiating from the hole completely criss-crossed the window. Facing oncoming headlights, it would be a bitch to drive at night.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. The escort officer that jumped off to meet us was Paul Potter, a wisecracking lieutenant I’d been friends with back in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, during the SF officers’ course. We had a fast, backs
lapping reunion and piled on the bus with the others. He was short, stocky, and cocky.
“What are you doing here, you little hillbilly pissant?” I quizzed my friend, punching him on the shoulder.
“Not much lately, you rednecked peckerwood, sir,” Paul replied, to show he respected my new rank. “I’m due to rotate back to Bragg in a week. For the past month, I’ve been doing gofer work for the XO back at CCN. You know, go fer this, go fer that. Before that, I was a launch officer at Forward Operational Base 2 (FOB2) up at Camp Eagle, where the 101st Airborne has an aviation brigade located.”
“What do you launch?” I asked quite innocently.
“Jesus, Nick,” he responded. “Don’t you know what you’ve got yourself in for?”
“Nope,” I replied. “All I know is that it was CCN or a staff job at C Company, Pleiku. I volunteered, sight unseen.”
Paul gave me a look one would save for a slightly demented cousin. “CCN works across the border, in northeast Laos, north Cambodia, and some in southern North Vietnam. We monitor and interdict the Ho Chi Minh trail. Either with six-man recon teams or with larger strike force units, up to company-size in strength when the target justifies it. It’s a top secret operation. You can’t even tell your wife or family what you’re up to. Our base camp is as secure as a bank vault, but we hang our ass out on a very short limb when we cross the border: no ID and it’s kiss yourself good-bye if Charlie gets ahold of you.”
“Do tell,” I airily replied. “How did a loud-mouthed beer-head like you ever keep from spilling the beans?”
“No shit, Nick,” he answered grimly, a stern expression on his round, cheery face. “It’s hard time at the penal barracks at Fort Leavenworth if you talk out of turn. From the moment you get on the bus, you’re under top secret security regulations. Don’t say nuttin’ to nobody if you want to stay out of trouble.”
I shut up and contemplated Paul’s words while we made the long drive on a well-worn macadam blacktop road that deteriorated into a well-rutted dirt road as soon as we got out of town, headed toward my new home for the next few months. Heavy, green-painted army and Marine trucks zipping past made the trip exciting by itself, not to mention my anticipation at getting to my new assignment.
15 Months in SOG Page 1