15 Months in SOG

by Thom Nicholson

  Other sappers and commandos had then run through barracks, shooting and throwing grenades at the sleeping occupants. Some opened up on the revelers still at the party, pinning them inside, and keeping them out of the fight for the camp. The officer’s club had a strict rule prohibiting weapons where drinking was allowed. If the VC had known that, they could have waltzed in and killed a couple of dozen more men.

  2

  Big Boy Toys

  or

  The Collecting Game

  For the next few days, we worked furiously upgrading our defenses, halfway expecting the VC to hit us again. The frenzy of activity helped me get through the shock and pain of Paul’s death. I spent every working minute getting settled into my new job as well as working on the new camp defenses laid out by Lieutenant Colonel Warren. The busy days passed, and Charlie didn’t reappear, so we slowly reverted back into a more routine life in a war zone.

  Everyone had lost friends during the attack, and our morale was low. The destroyed buildings were quickly replaced, and the torn scrap that was once home to somebody was taken down the road to the dump, the pain of our losses subsided, and life went on. Several investigators came up from MAC-SOG headquarters in Saigon, and I thought for sure our commander would be relieved, but nothing happened. Nobody said much about the celebration or the fact that so many of us were potted before and during the assault. In truth, it probably didn’t have much impact on the outcome of the action; the cluster of men at the party took only two casualties, which was probably a lot fewer than would have been the case if everyone had been in bed. Most of the men who were killed by the raiders had been asleep in their rooms when they died.

  We cleaned out the ranks of the security company, firing anyone hired in the last three months. Several of the guard company soldiers were already gone. They had slipped away with the escaping VC or deserted to avoid being arrested and questioned. I know I wouldn’t have wanted to be in their shoes, the way those of us who survived the attack felt about traitors in our midst.

  The Wednesday after the raid, the 5th Group chaplain came up from Nha Trang and held a memorial service. I was still pretty shook-up over the loss of Paul, and it was a sad, melancholy day. The army has a standard setup for memorial services. Empty boots, a pair for each lost soldier, are lined up in front of a white linen–covered table, upon which, on this day, lay twenty-eight green berets. God, it was a gut-wrenching occasion. More than once, I had to drop my head to inconspicuously wipe away tears. I didn’t want to appear soft in front of the others at the service, but I couldn’t keep the tears from spilling out.

  I regret to this day that I didn’t ask to go back to the States as the army escort officer with Paul’s body, but the idea never entered my mind until it was too late.

  Everyone stayed as busy as possible, training new replacements, practicing defensive measures in case of another raid, doing weapons qualifications, and so on. Personally, I doubted if we’d ever be hit again; the VC didn’t go where they were expected. But we sure as hell were ready for them from then on. Actually, we and the Marines from a nearby unit, the 3d Amtrac Battalion, had killed almost all of those involved. The mud Marines went after those who made it out of the camp and hunted them down in the brush for the next couple of weeks.

  My grief for my friend lost its intensity in training and guard duty, which were added to my normal responsibilities as the assistant S-3. The CO found out I had an engineering degree from college and ordered me to design and supervise the construction of a sandbagged guard post on top of the TOC, where guards could survive any ground attack. We placed a double row of razor wire completely around the building. Now, the only way inside was a path from the gate in the wire to the steel door. Too late, we had learned how dangerous it was to be trapped in the windowless building. We also bolted the air conditioner to its frame to prevent anyone from pushing it in.

  Protected by the walls of his office, Major Toomey had suffered little from the sapper bomb that almost destroyed the building. Only his hearing was temporarily damaged, even though he’d been knocked unconscious by the explosion. He was tough and soon was back at work, running the TOC and planning operations.

  Besides the wounded and the dead, we had one other loss, our XO. Incredible as it seems, he had slept through the attack. He had taken on a snootful of booze at the party and had passed out on his bunk at the far end of the field-grade BOQ. If he’d lived at the east end of the building, he would have burned to death in the fire that consumed half of the building.

  I didn’t see it, but I heard that he staggered out of his room the next morning, hungover, shirtless, and barefoot, gaping in amazement. The story got out that he bitterly complained that he had not been awakened by anyone during the commotion of the fight. All day, he ran around, giving orders and trying desperately to be useful and noticed by everyone. Before long, he was hearing whispers and laughter behind his back everywhere he went.

  His paranoia grew more pronounced. He seemed determined to sneak up on a person, to catch the unfortunate fellow laughing at him. His job performance deteriorated, and before long, he was gone, officially a victim of “combat fatigue.” To this day, he probably wishes he had died in the attack rather than live with the embarrassing truth he has had to carry as part of his personal baggage.

  Major Toomey called me into his office early the next week. “You graduated from SF scuba school, didn’t you, Nick?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. “Took my A-team through just last year. That was a bitchin’ three weeks, but I’m qualified.”

  Major Toomey nodded. “Good, ’cause we’ve been tasked by XXIV Corps to recover some stiffs from a chopper that went down yesterday in the bay.” XXIV Corps was the highest army command in I Corps of South Vietnam, sharing the fighting in South Vietnam’s northernmost region with the III Marine Amphibious Force.

  Major Toomey continued. “Seems a unit up north was flying a couple of jeep-wreck victims back to the morgue when their Huey lost hydraulics and splashed into the bay. Pilot and crew escaped, but they want us to get the bodies out and attach a line to the chopper for salvage if possible. See if you can find a couple of others who’re scuba qualified and take the boat out to the navy lighter anchored over the crash site.” Major Toomey pointed on a map opened on his desk. The spot was about two miles out in the bay.

  “No problem, sir.” I was elated at the prospect of diving again. I had not expected to get a chance to do it while in Vietnam. “Where do I get some gear?”

  “We’ve got the latest stuff in supply,” he replied. “Ask Sergeant White to fix you up. I told him you’d be needin’ it.”

  Sgt. Rosco White’s skin was as black as obsidian, and his smile as warm as the hot Georgia sunshine of his youth. He was a large man and probably had trouble keeping his weight within the standards. I’d already met him and been charmed by his down-home personality. He was a fine human being and one hell of a Scrabble player. In fact, he was the best I ever saw. He loved to get into a game with officers, who undoubtedly thought they could easily handle a dirt-poor son of north Georgia, then beat the pants off them while lightening their wallets. Honest to God, he used to spend his free time reading the dictionary. I had learned an expensive lesson the hard way a couple of weeks earlier and thereafter would play him only for fun. I did my best, though, to get on and stay on his good side. I’d learned a long time before that a friendly supply sergeant was a valuable asset for a young officer. I showed up at the supply shed with the two NCOs who volunteered to dive with me.

  “Sergeant White,” I hollered from the counter at the entrance to his cavernous “house of plenty.”

  “Back here. Whatcha want?”

  “I need to use the scuba gear. I’m going diving for Major Toomey. Can you fix us up?” White was busy ordering the stock of exotic and mundane items we needed. One of the supply sheds had burned during the raid, and much was lost in the fire. He came out of his little office and jerked his chin at the pile of diving
gear sitting in the corner.

  “All ready for you, Captain. Just sign right here.” He gave me the supply requisition sheet which showed I had taken responsibility for the gear.

  I hoisted the heavy yellow tank of air on my back and breathed through the rubber mouthpiece, checking the air.

  “Don’t worry, Cap’n,” White remarked. “I just filled ’em. I wouldn’t want any off’zer who can play Scrabble as good as you to run out fifty feet down.”

  “I guess it’s nice to know you think I’m good for something, Rosco.”

  White smiled at me mischievously. “The S-3 said you’d be needin’ the boat as well. Well, here’re the keys fer it. Now y’all be careful, and don’t damage my baby.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Sarge,” I drawled. “I’ll take good care of your baby.”

  Sergeant White had scrounged the boat from some Harbor Command swabbies, and it was his pride and joy. I happened to look over in the corner, at a pile of Russian AK-47s found after the raid. “Better let me have a couple of the AKs for trade bait. We’re headed out to a navy salvage ship. The sailors may be in a souvenir mood.”

  “Here.” White reached under his counter. “Take a couple of VC flags I had made. They always bring top dollar with the navy.”

  “What’s this stuff?”

  “Chicken blood. Makes the flag worth more if it has VC blood all over it.”

  “Hell, Sergeant, nobody’s gonna fall for that.”

  “Take my word fer it. They wanta believe. Just be serious when you explain the tragic cost of getting this symbol from the desperate enemy hordes.”

  Before noon, sergeants Jones and Wiznowski and myself were alongside the navy barge. My volunteer assistants were both young NCOs from opposite sides of the U.S.A., yet they could have been brothers: brown hair, brown eyes, well-built, walking advertisements for the American way of life. We climbed on board the navy barge and met the CO, a baby-faced navy lieutenant, a friendly swabbie, what we army types call navy folks. He gave us a quick rundown of the situation. I suppose because we were different from most of the military types he came in contact with, he went out of his way to be pleasant. Just about all the other service members liked Special Forces. Whether it was our green berets, our dynamic personalities, or our unquestioned good looks, I don’t know.

  “The best we can determine,” he said, “the chopper went down right around here. I suggest you let one of my men tow you in your boat while you three fan out and search for the wreckage.”

  Soon, the three of us were in the warm water, holding to fifty-foot towropes while the navy slowly cruised a simple up-and-down search pattern. It wasn’t long before Sergeant Jones spotted the wreckage by a bluff of silt-covered coral. It was down about forty feet, the boom broken off from the body of the aircraft. Several small sharks were swimming around, perhaps drawn by the smell of the bodies. The sharks pulled back as we moved in, circling just at the limit of our vision. I kept a wary eye for their bigger brothers.

  We anchored the motor boat and dove down to the wreckage. The cargo doors were open, revealing the two dark rubber body bags strapped down in the passenger compartment. We unstrapped them carefully. The occupants inside were limp and difficult to maneuver since rigor mortis had passed. I sent Jones and Sergeant Wizzer up with one body between them. While they were gone, I swam into the front cockpit.

  There, hanging on the back of his seat, was the pilot’s web gear and, strapped on the belt, a chrome-plated, two-inch-barrel Smith & Wesson .38 revolver gleamed in the filtered sunlight. It was beautiful. “Finders keepers, losers weepers,” I mumbled to myself. In a flash, I had it in my swimsuit, and as soon as the two NCOs came back for the second cadaver, I hooked up the towline and swam up to the boat above me.

  Stashing the pistol in my gear, I took one of the AK-47 rifles and climbed back on the barge. Showing the much-in-demand trophy, I asked the navy lieutenant, “Got a nice AK-47 here. What’ll you give me for it?”

  Boy oh boy, did his eyes bug out. You could see the naked desire for the souvenir gleaming in his eyes; I suppose all his dumpy boat did was chug around Da Nang Bay, policing up trash, or something. His eyes swept around the deck. He was thinking furiously. “How about ten gallons of ice cream?”

  “Nope, not enough.”

  “How about the ice cream and the latest six copies of Playboy magazine?”

  “Well, we’re gettin’ there. What else?”

  “What else you want?”

  I looked around. “I’ll take that portable generator,” I said, pointing at the little two-and-a-half-horsepower, gasoline-powered unit sitting on the fantail. Portable generators were wonderful backups to the big truck-mounted ones used to serve the camp’s electrical needs. The TOC would welcome a portable unit if the big boy went out during a critical phase of a cross-border operation. “And, those binoculars.” I pointed at the weather-worn case holding a pair of 10×50 navy binoculars hanging from a hook by the bridge door. I could use those myself, if and when I got into the field.

  The boat driver was a little reluctant, but when I added the blood-spattered Viet Cong flag, which I swore was taken at great cost in a suicide attack, he quickly agreed to the deal. Swiftly, we transferred the goodies to our little boat and departed, in case our navy friends came down with a case of buyer’s remorse. The boat skipper could always get the equipment replaced; in the whole of South Vietnam, the magic phrase was “combat loss.” No matter how badly you screwed up and lost something, if you could classify it as combat loss, the supply system made it up. I imagine the report on the lieutenant’s binocs and the generator simply read, “Combat loss while on patrol in the Bay of Da Nang.”

  Sergeant White’s eyes danced with a true scrounger’s appreciation when I showed him the generator. He was aware of the myriad uses for a portable, gas-powered generator. Then I flashed the pistol, now shining in the afternoon sun.

  “Oh, Dai Uy (Vietnamese for captain, pronounced Die We), I gotta have that pistol. Whata’ ya want fer it?”

  “Well,” I said, a little reluctantly, since I hadn’t planned on giving it up. “Make me an offer.”

  White went into his supply room and came out with a brand new M-16A3 rifle, with the short barrel and collapsing stock. The weapon was little more than half as long as a regular M-16 rifle. To a gunslinger, it was a thing of beauty. He lay it on the countertop and waited for my response.

  I wanted that rifle, but tried not to show it. “What else you got?” I asked, not wanting to appear too easy.

  “How ’bout these here test grenades?” White went back, deeper, into his inner sanctum and emerged with a small wooden crate. He carefully opened the box and set it on the counter. Inside were the new, golf ball–size M-44 fragmentation grenades. They were nifty. A person could carry a dozen or more on patrol, as opposed to only four of the regular-size M-2 or M-26 grenades. “Gettin’ close,” I countered. “How about the scuba gear I used today?”

  “Deal,” White fairly shouted. He grabbed the pistol and rubbed its shiny barrel on his sleeve, grinning in satisfaction. He’d had a warehouse burn down in the midnight raid, so he was wheeling and dealing all over, writing everything off as combat loss. It had to be the best time in his supply sergeant’s life.

  The trip to the underwater grave of the chopper turned out to be extremely profitable for me and left my supply sergeant friend happy as well. All in all, a good day’s work. And the NCOs had fresh ice cream for supper. I was making friends and influencing folks right and left.

  I had brought with me from the States a beautifully made Buck Company bowie knife. It was already strapped upside down on the left side of my web gear suspender, ready for quick use. I added the navy binocs to my gear and hung my new minirifle above my bunk. My toys were beginning to add up.

  Thanksgiving Day rolled around, and, wouldn’t you know it, my name came up on the Italian Green duty roster. If any recon teams ran across a cache of North Vietnamese ammunition on that day, I would be t
he officer in charge of a team that would fly out to the site and surreptitiously insert the booby-trapped munitions into the enemy cache. I crossed my fingers that no sites would be found; I was looking forward to the turkey dinner planned at the mess hall.

  I wasn’t too keen on the Italian Green idea from the first. I can admit it would be detrimental to the enemy’s morale to be shooting rockets or mortar rounds at the Yankees and have one go off in his face. The thing that bothered me was that we didn’t destroy the other ammo at the cache site, allowing who knows how many thousands of rounds of good ammo to continue down the Ho Chi Minh trail. If the shell fired just before the one that was bobby-trapped hit some unlucky soldier on his head, blowing him to smithereens, he wouldn’t give a shit for the morale factor caused by the Italian Green round that was going to blow away the VC gunner with the next shot.

  However, the orders had come up from HQ in Saigon, so every time we found an unmanned cache, we slipped in a few IG rounds. We would chopper out to the site, sneak up, slip the stuff in, and chopper out as fast as we could. It was dangerous work, since, usually, where there were caches, North Vietnamese Army (NVA) soldiers were close by.

  About three, just before the mess hall was due to open, wouldn’t you know it, Recon Team Sidewinder called in a spot report. They’d run across an NVA cache just across the Laotian border, about fifty miles from Da Nang. An SVN-SOG chopper was called in and, grumbling at my bad luck, I started to put my gear on.

  “What’s the matter, Nick?” Major Toomey walked out of his office.

  “I’ve gotta run an IG insert, dammit. I’ll miss Thanksgiving chow, sure as shootin’.”

  “Hell,” Major Toomey responded after a moment’s thought. “I don’t like turkey all that much, anyway.” He rubbed his big hands together. “I’ll make the run, and you get some grub. I haven’t gone out on an IG insert yet. It should be fun.”