15 Months in SOG

by Thom Nicholson

  4

  A Visit to Bon Hai

  or

  Momma, Your Baby’s Sick

  Happy New Year, 1969. Now that I was a company commander, rather than just an assistant staff officer, I sensed a subtle change in the CO’s attitude toward me. Perhaps I was back in the good graces of Colonel Warren. So, wouldn’t you know it? He got transferred. A new boss, Lieutenant Colonel Isler, came on board. We discovered we shared a love of football, and while I wasn’t down-home comfortable with him, at least I wasn’t crossing the street to avoid him. “The Iceman” was a big fan of the New York Jets and Joe Namath, and offered to bet any amount they would beat the NFL in the Super Bowl. He ended up making a pile of money from diehards like me, who swore the new league’s champion team couldn’t whip the Baltimore Colts on their best day.

  I put many hours in January 1969 running B Company through general training exercises to upgrade their basic skills and to give me a chance to evaluate my command and the company’s level of training, the quality of the officers and NCOs in charge, and the quality of the Montagnard soldiers.

  B Company was 188 men strong at full strength, with four platoons of 45 soldiers and a headquarters section of 8 men. The Montagnard soldiers were from the Bru tribe, which came originally from Northern Laos. CCN had nearly three hundred Bru under contract. I also had five young American lieutenants to boss around, four platoon leaders and an executive officer, whom everyone had started to call ell-tees. I was fortunate to have a top-notch company first sergeant named Sam Fischer, who was a seasoned, professional soldier. He was short and rapidly heading to baldness, with a friendly, weather-seamed face, browned by the sun. He was crisp and sure of himself, with a strong military bearing. He had been a Special Forces NCO for many years and knew how to guide me in the direction he wanted me to take without ever giving offense. As long as I listened to him, I stayed out of trouble.

  My XO was a medium-height, dark-haired, husky youngster from Ohio named Peter McMurray, all full of piss and vinegar and the exuberance of youth. Of course, everyone called him Mac, so I called him Pete. He was great to work with, and we became close friends. His infectious laugh and devil-may-care attitude were just the tonic I needed to keep me loose.

  Pete had been with the company for a few months and knew what it took to make the unit run efficiently. His support was essential in my transition of command. The unit slowly recovered from the shock of Captain Jones’s and the others’ deaths. First Sergeant Fischer and I kept the men busy training, which helped to keep their minds occupied. It showed just how fleeting personal emotions among soldiers were. Once gone, quickly forgotten, until the quiet times, when dark memories slipped back into consciousness, uninvited.

  I spent my days inspecting the men and their training, just to get them used to seeing me, and to help if I could. I had my choice of a new lieutenant to replace Jefferson, and chose 2d Lt. Ray Lawrence, who had just come up from Nha Trang as a replacement. He was a tall, gangly redhead, born and raised in South Carolina. Ray was perfect in temperament for command of a Montagnard platoon. I never saw him angry or impatient with his troops, who could do things that would drive a teetotaler to drink.

  The eager, young Montagnard soldiers were anxious to please me and tried their best to do what I asked of them. Most could understand pidgin English, or even more, unless I tried to fuss at one of them for messing up. Then it was, “So solly, please, no understand English.” Compared to Americans, they were little fellows. Most were well under five feet six inches, and dark brown from all the years in the bright Southeast Asia sun. Many were seasoned troops who had survived the Lang Vei fight in February of ’68. Prior to that, they had been run out of their traditional home in Northern Laos by the NVA. They were very brave and tried hard to be good soldiers when Americans led them. They didn’t like the Vietnamese and wouldn’t fight for the ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) Special Forces officers assigned to our unit. That suited me fine as I wanted to command them personally.

  I made it a point to find a tall Yard to be my radio operator, since I’d learn the hard way in my first tour that the VC liked to start an ambush by shooting at the taller targets, who were usually Americans. I considered that a most unfair way to start any fight, but if they insisted on being so determined to shoot me, I did my best to make it hard for them to find me.

  To my satisfaction, one of the soldiers in the company was nearly six feet tall. If I hunched down, we would present two similar targets instead of one to an eagle-eyed VC rifleman. The tall Yard’s name was Pham Tuc, and he had the usual baby face and dark, chocolate-colored skin of the Montagnard. He was thin, wiry, and tough, and stronger than a person would ever imagine from looking at him. Pham was proud as could be to be chosen for the honor of carrying the Dai Uy’s radio. I never went to the field without him. He was barely seventeen, and come to find out, the son of the headman in his home village. Pham was a brave and loyal soldier, and I sort of unofficially adopted him like an older son. His karma and mine all interwoven, we grew to be very fond of one another.

  Colonel Isler sent for me toward the end of the month. Briefly, we discussed my company and how I evaluated their skills at soldiering. “Nick, I want you to fly up to Bon Hai with the body of the striker killed Thursday in the grenade accident.”

  A Montagnard soldier from recon team Coral had been setting up an ambush during training exercises. Apparently, he’d pulled the pin on a hand grenade prior to setting a booby trap, and the grenade exploded in his hands. Since he was a member of my company, I had been waiting at the dispensary when they brought in the body. Pham had been with me because he claimed the dead striker was a cousin from his village.

  The M-26 grenade is a deadly efficient antipersonnel weapon in which notched piano wire is wrapped around an explosive charge. When the charge blows, the wrapped wire breaks and fans out in a thousand little shards of hot death. Hold a grenade in your hands when it explodes, and it makes quite a mess. The dead striker was shredded meat, no hands or face, and most of his insides, outside. Pham was white faced, but otherwise took the tragedy well because the Yards believed in reincarnation, that death was only the first step in a new start, hopefully in better circumstances.

  Colonel Isler continued. “The dead striker came from the Montagnard settlement up at Bon Hai, and we need to recruit some more men to replace the losses of the last two months. Take a couple of your officers and an escort of local Yards. Major Khai (who was our Army of South Vietnam counterpart) is giving the dead man a VN award for heroism during his last recon mission. Present it to the dead man’s family.”

  The Iceman paused and lit one of his thin cigars. “Try to recruit a dozen new men if you can. See Captain Lopez, and get some piasters (Vietnamese currency) for bonus money for the village chief. Lopez’ll tell you what the going rate for a death benefit is. I’ll order a chopper to pick you up tomorrow morning. Get back by dark tomorrow night. Oh, yeah, tell Lopez to get you a couple of cows, too. The Yards will want to have a feast in honor of your visit and for the funeral. They make quite a party out of their funerals.”

  Isler smiled at me with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Watch out for the drinks. The stuff they serve will cut varnish.”

  I saluted and left the Old Man’s office. Back in the company area, I sent for First Sergeant Fischer. As soon as he settled down in the other chair in my little office, I told him about the escort duty and our recruiting assignment. “Who should I take with me?”

  The old NCO didn’t hesitate a second. “Me and Ell-tee McMurray. The Yards all love Lieutenant Mac, and he’ll fit in real good. I’ll lay on some troops for the escort. Most of them are from Bon Hai, and will welcome a chance to visit their families.”

  “Make Pham the NCOIC,” I said. “He’s a cousin to the dead man and besides, he can translate for us.”

  “Hell, sir, all these Yards are kin. Just ask ’em.” The old NCO laughed.

  We were all waiting on the macadam tarmac h
eliport at ten o’clock the next morning. The casket containing our dead striker was covered with the yellow-and-red-striped flag of South Vietnam. Pinned to it was a small medal dangling from a bright red ribbon. I remember thinking the little piece of metal wasn’t much of a trade for the dead man inside. For just an instant, I saw myself returning to my family the same way, but I swiftly pushed the morbid vision away. Death was the one thing you never wanted to dwell on around there. You simply trusted to fate and tried to do your job. What happened, happened.

  The sacrificial cows were securely caged in their transport pens, mournfully mooing their displeasure at the tight confines. After we lifted off the tarmac, the pen would be slung beneath the chopper, and the doomed animals would ride the whole way like caged birds on a string. It would be uncomfortable, but a lot better than what was in store for them when they touched earth again.

  I heard the wop, wop, wop of the Huey helicopter long before I saw it crossing the river from the Da Nang airfield. As we squinted against the sand kicked up by its whirling blades, the casket was loaded in, and we scrambled on board. In a few seconds, the chopper lifted off, and tilting the nose to pick up speed, we zipped over the junkyard across the road from camp and climbed into the warm air, our dinner dangling below.

  The flight over the war-torn country was visually intriguing. The greens and browns of the low mountains seemed serene from where we were, yet I knew that down below, men were hunting other men. Their throats dry, their palms sweaty with fear and tension, they must envy us so remote above them. I loved flying up there, cool and safe, like an omnipotent overseer.

  I envied the flyboys in the war; they flew above the dust and sweat of the ground, zooming along in their magnificent flying machines. But I also felt some disdain. Up there, they were beyond the ground pounder’s ever-present fear of meeting a bad guy around the next bend of the trail and the gut-wrenching sound of bullets cracking past your ear. Of course, I’m sure the flyboys would give me a passionate argument about the hazards they faced.

  McMurray was laughing and talking to one of the Yard soldiers, who probably didn’t understand a word he was saying. Fischer was asleep, resting up for the coming party, I figured. I remained quiet and watched the passing countryside, reveling in the view. That whole part of South Vietnam was covered by rice paddies cut out of the jungle, criss-crossed by trails and dirt roads. Countless bomb craters filled with rainwater reflected the sun’s rays as we flew over them. The ground below would be red someday as the steel shrapnel rusted back into the earth.

  The village came into view, and the pilot banked the chopper as he lined up for his landing. It was a typical Yard village, eighty to a hundred grass huts built in a circle around an open, central area. The construction was standard design. Every hut had grass-covered sides and roof and was raised about four feet off the ground. Underneath were pens for chickens and pigs. The slash-and-burn fields adjoining the village had been planted in corn and sugarcane. More an orange-red clay then dark brown dirt, the ground didn’t look very rich. Several scruffy dogs began to bark excitedly at our approach. The pilot banked over the village, and the local residents quickly congregated, awaiting whatever the flying machine was bringing them.

  The pilot skillfully grounded the caged cows then slipped a few yards to the side before settling down and cutting his engine. As the turbine whine died, Pham jumped out and ran to an older man. He respectfully spoke to the old Montagnard, who wore a faded blue shirt, a loincloth, and flip-flop sandals. His headband was made from numerous bright strings woven into a sort of rope. He was short and worn down by time and his hard life. His mouth lacked most of the usual number of teeth. His lips were the deep red of a longtime betel nut chewer. The dark colored skin on the old man’s face was wrinkled and creased.

  As Pham talked, I saw the old eyes look into the side door of the chopper at the flag-draped casket. The old man turned back to the assembled people, and Pham ran back to where I and the others were standing by the dark shape of the helicopter. The metal popped and cracked as it cooled, but the silence after the noise of the trip was intense. I led the other Americans with me to where the old man waited. He bowed politely and spoke to me in the Bru dialect. I motioned for Pham to translate.

  Pham spoke to us. “My father says you are welcome. He says you are to wait at his house while he takes the body of my cousin to the house of his brother.” Pham led the way, and I followed with Pete and Sergeant Fischer.

  The houses were all very similar, about twenty-by-forty, and off the ground far enough for the pigpens and chicken coops to fit under them. The doorway was reached by a notched log used as a stairway from the ground. A brightly colored cloth was the doorway’s only barrier to the elements and that was tied back, allowing easy access to people, dogs, and flies. Although it was already quite warm, every hut had a small fire going, the smoke of which had to filter through the grass roof, but it kept most of the bugs out. It also saved on matches when supper time arrived.

  The ever-present smoky fire in the confined space of the huts gave Montagnards a distinctive odor, especially when they were sweating. It reminded me of a barbecue odor from summer nights long ago, back home in Arkansas, when my dad was cooking steaks on the grill. I loved the smell of the Yards and never grew tired of it. The body odor you might have expected of an unwashed “savage” just wasn’t there.

  We stopped at the central hut of the village where the chief lived, and paused while the coffin was carried past. The pallbearers were followed by several sobbing women and many villagers. On impulse, I ordered the hand salute so that we could honor the fallen soldier on his last journey and, incidentally, improve our stature in the eyes of the grieving villagers.

  After the crowd passed by, we climbed up the log steps. I asked Pham, “Is your father chief of the village?”

  With a shy bob of his head, Pham indicated yes. He then told us how the tribe had arrived there. “We once lived many miles over there.” He pointed to the mountains in the west, in northern Laos. “My village chose to fight with the Americans from many years ago. Before you ever came to South Vietnam. When your soldiers left, my father moved across the border to the Special Forces camp at Lang Vei. We fought there when it was overrun last year. Then we move here to Bon Hai, and I join Special Forces army, and now fight for you, Dai Uy Nicholson.”

  Sergeant Fischer had told me the story. When the camp at Lang Vei fell to a determined assault by North Vietnamese soldiers in February of ’68, what was left of the villagers had moved on to Khe Sanh. Then, the NVA attacked the Marines there, and the villagers were forced on to this place. Now, the remnants of the once-proud people were trying to stay alive by growing what little would flourish in the poor soil and taking handouts from U.S. AID (Agency for International Development) workers. They made what money they could by renting their sons to the American Special Forces as mercenaries.

  Pham and the other Yard soldiers soon had their pants and shoes off, replacing them with loincloths and flip-flops, like the rest of the men in the village. When the old chief got back, Pham introduced us to him, his mother, his two younger sisters, and a small brother. The females had all put on blouses, which none were wearing when we arrived. I suppose they had experienced the reaction of Americans to bare breasts. Only a few very old women stayed in custom and left their breasts bare.

  Every woman over sixteen had her two front teeth filed off flush with their gums, making them look, to me at least, like aborigine vampires. Everyone, man and woman, chewed betel nut, which colored their teeth jet black and made their lips and tongues crimson red. Their feet were as wide as they were long, with splayed toes and horny soles; more than likely none had ever worn shoes. Still, the women had a natural beauty and grace and were delighted to see Pham and welcome us to their home.

  Pham quickly presented loincloths to me and my comrades, which we reluctantly put on. Our white legs caused many a giggle among the brown-skinned locals, but we endured the embarrassment out of
respect for their culture and in the cause of good relationships, just as our training back in the States had emphasized.

  With Pham’s help, I made my pitch for new recruits, and the old chief promised ten. At Pham’s nod, I passed over the VN bounty, about fifty thousand Vietnamese piasters. The official exchange rate made the transaction worth about fifty dollars in U.S. money. It certainly didn’t seem like much for their sons, but times were hard and lives cheap in South Vietnam in those days. The chief promised to have the “volunteers” ready for pickup when we left, and we concluded our business.

  “Now village will sacrifice cow and have big feast,” Pham announced with a grin. The tall Montagnard boy led us to the village square, for want of a better term, where one of the cows we delivered was staked out, stoically awaiting its fate. The entire village, save for the home in mourning, was there. The people surrounded the cow, the men closest, then the women and children intermixed. By the time everyone had assembled, it made quite a crowd.

  The old chief stepped out and made a welcoming speech to us and had all of us Americans led to small stools next to where he would sit. Several men carried out huge clay pots, a green banana leaf tied over the top of each one. These were set around the circle formed by the assembled villagers.

  “What’s that?” I whispered to Sergeant Fischer. I watched uneasily as the top covers were removed and buckets of cool spring water poured into the wide mouths of the jugs. A profusion of black bugs scurried out.