15 Months in SOG

by Thom Nicholson

  Even though it took only thirty minutes for the choppers to arrive, we were under sniper fire before we all got out. As I peered out the door of the last extraction chopper, I could see a large number of green-clad enemy moving through the brush toward our little hill. It had been a close call. CCN looked awfully good as we pulled in, just as the sun set over the mountains from which we had just departed.

  After debriefing, I limped over to the dispensary and had my leg cleaned and bandaged. “Hell, Captain,” the SF medic chuckled. “You won’t even have a scar from this one to show your grandkids.” He carefully wrapped the white bandage around my tanned calf, several red whelps from the hornet’s attack clearly visible on my leg. The gray-haired, black NCO whom we called “Big Momma” was as good a doctor as most full-fledged medical doctors, especially on gunshot wounds. He was probably on his third or fourth tour, as medics were in short supply.

  My only response was a weak, “Doesn’t break my heart. Besides, it didn’t even hurt. Especially when compared to those damned hornet stings.”

  He just smiled, and continued to bandage my wound. “Were you scared when the VC blazed away at you?”

  “Hell, not really,” I replied. “Talk about frightened. When those VC hornets got after me, I damned near crapped in my pants. Now that was scared.”

  8

  An Easy Month in the War

  or

  I Could R & R Forever

  Colonel Isler called me to his office a couple of days later. “How you feelin’, Captain Nick? The leg okay?” He puffed on one of the smelly, little cigars he was so fond of. It did keep the bugs away, I supposed, so it had some merit.

  “Fine, sir, it was just a scratch.” I was grateful I hadn’t lost any men from making too hasty a decision about walking down a trail in the middle of enemy country. I knew better, and the slight discomfort from my healing leg was a sharp reminder to think twice before doing something so foolish again.

  “Well, the medics say you’re no good in the bush for a couple of weeks, so I’m gonna send you to Thailand on TDY (temporary duty)”. He smiled at the absurdity of his next question. “That all right with you?”

  “Great, sir,” I answered, fighting to suppress a grin. “What’ll I be doing?” Thailand was the most favored R & R spot in Southeast Asia for SF troops. America had had an SF presence in that serene country for many years by then. The list of “cool” spots was a well-known secret to the proud wearers of the Green Berets. I was more than happy to be going there on business. It stood to reason that fun would follow.

  Iceman leaned back in his chair and looked at a big map of Southeast Asia decorating his wall. “The air force wants a couple of liaison officers to fly as Prairie Fire control in their airborne radio relay and control ship out of Udorn.”

  Prairie Fire was the general code name for our cross-border operations conducted in northern Laos and southern North Vietnam. We called in for air support to a big C-130 radio-relay aircraft through air force radio operators on the Covey plane. The Prairie Fire relay then vectored fighters and B-52 bombers for us to use on targets discovered during reconnaissance operations.

  The Old Man continued. “They want to try using SF people as the radio link to inserted recon teams, to see if the communication between the flyboys and troops on the ground is any better. Anyway, that’s what I was told by our HQ in Saigon. Since you’re on light duty for two weeks, you’re elected. Go on over and ride around the sky all day.” Colonel Isler smiled. “We want to keep our flyboy brethren happy. If the air force decides to make it a permanent arrangement, then Nha Trang (Special Forces HQ) will have to make an officer assignment slot available. You be back here in two weeks. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” I paused. “You know I’m due for R and R the last week of the month? I’ll be out of the loop for better than three weeks. That all right?”

  “Well, you’re not fit to go in the bush as it is.” Colonel Isler scratched his arm and thought for a minute. “Go on. We’ll get it all over with at one time.”

  “Yes, sir.” I saluted and scooted out of his office before he could change his mind. I whistled as I hurried to pack my civvies. I didn’t waste a minute getting away, and was out the gate and on the way to the airfield faster than Superman could change in a phone booth. What a lucky break! It was worth the minor inconvenience of a sore leg. Thailand for two whole weeks, and it didn’t even count against my R & R time coming up right behind it.

  I arrived at the air force base outside of Bangkok before dark on one of the many transport planes that flew throughout Vietnam and the surrounding countries. Those MAC (Military Airlift Command) pilots sure saw a lot of country, lucky devils. Of course, both the air force fighter jocks and those of us who used them, looked down on them as flying truck drivers. To paraphrase a lament I heard from more than one air force officer, “If you ain’t a fighter pilot, you ain’t shit.”

  The major in charge of the reception station glanced at my orders temporarily assigning me to Udorn and looked at a blackboard on the wall. He was air force, filling a plush slot in a soft billet. He looked it with the baggy eyes and red nose of a man who was probably hitting the sauce too hard every night. Listed on the blackboard were the flight schedules to all the different air bases in Thailand. There were a bunch of them. There were so many airplanes in the Thai sky, in fact, that it was rumored the birds had moved out until the war was over. They probably figured the old neighborhood was ruined anyway.

  “Nothing going up country until Sunday, so you may as well come back at 1600 hours then. I’ll have you on the passenger manifest for Udorn. Relax, enjoy the weekend in Bangkok. Check-in is two hours before takeoff. See you then.” He turned away to other duties, and I left the place, happy at the layover.

  Could life be any better? Not only was I away from Vietnam for two whole weeks, but I now had a weekend in Bangkok. I was outta there and on my way to the restaurants and bars of the city before the generous major had even focused on his next piece of paperwork. I had been in Bangkok before and wanted to see if the New York Massage Parlor still stocked the best looking masseuses in the Orient. As you entered the opulent interior of the place, a glassed-in amphitheater holding fifty numbered seats was on the right. In the seats sat forty or fifty beautiful Thai girls, waiting for you to pick them to be your “special lady” for the time you were there. It was like being a kid in a candy store. Half the fun was just making the decision which sweetie pie you wanted walking up and down on your back. Those little Thai gals gave a massage that would turn Superman’s muscles into Jell-O.

  The old place hadn’t changed a lick from my last visit two years earlier. I exited in a most relaxed frame of mind. A good meal, more visits to the places on my list, and safe, relaxing sleep for the next two nights. I was rejuvenated to the maximum.

  Properly refreshed, I showed up for my hop up country just in time to catch the shuttle run to the big air base in the center of Thailand. The flight was a milk run, and those of us aboard took advantage of the droning roar of the engines to catch up on our sleep.

  Udorn was filled with planes of all descriptions: F-111 attack-bombers, F-4 Phantoms, U-2 recon planes, C-130 transports, C-47 Spookys (aerial gunships), and F-105 “Thuds,” the workhorse fighter-bombers of the war. The noise and the smell of burnt kerosene were very nearly overpowering, even worse than Cam Ranh Bay in South Vietnam. Planes were taking off and landing in a constant stream of controlled tumult.

  I checked in with the unit I was temporarily assigned to, the 425th Air Command and Control Squadron. They issued me a bed in a clean, air-conditioned hootch, which was what I expected from the air force. The next morning, at 0500, I reported to the flight line for my first ride on the Prairie Fire air-control plane.

  It was a big, four-engine C-130, with a trailerlike commo module in its cavernous interior. The trailer was chock-full of radio gear and electronic gizmos for doing heaven only knows what. It all seemed very mysterious and awesome to a simple g
round-pounder like me. Inside the trailer was a full bull (0-6 colonel, as opposed to 0-5 lieutenant colonel) air force colonel and twenty other officers and airmen of various ranks. Every plane that flew into the combat-zone airspace of northern Laos and the juncture of the two Vietnams would be controlled from that plane. The colonel’s job was to make the hard decisions on priorities if a conflict arose between simultaneous requesters.

  At 0530, just as the sun peeked over the green canopy of the Thai jungle, we were airborne. In thirty minutes, the droning plane and its inhabitants were on station, five miles above the dark green jungle at the panhandle of northern Laos. We were close enough to talk to men on the ground or in the air, but far enough away from any potential enemy AA (antiaircraft fire) to be reasonably secure. One of the air force radio operators showed me how to operate the radio unit I was to monitor and gave me the SSI/SOI book that had the code words for the day.

  For the next twelve hours, the pilots bored a fifty-mile circle in the sky while the two dozen men inside the CCC (command, control, communications) trailer talked with men and planes busily engaged in the never-ending task of blowing little brown-skinned men into littler pieces. I had several conversations with recon teams operating on the ground, and if any needed air support, I passed them over to the air controllers on board. When my radio was quiet, I looked out of the little round windows of the plane at the fluffy white clouds or at the dark ground far below.

  Promptly at 1800 hours, the pilot came over the intercom saying that we had just been relieved by the night crew (in an identical plane), and were on our way back to base. We were on the ground thirty minutes later, and not long after that, I was headed out the gate of the air base, civvies on and looking for excitement as it says in the song. The army had sent three officers for the liaison trial, so I was off duty for the next twenty-four hours. I was determined to spend the time wisely, getting lots to eat, and relaxing, as much as my money and imagination would allow.

  On the recommendation of one of the officers I’d met in the plane, I headed for the nicest restaurant/bar in the town. Udorn was a Thai boomtown, filled with bars and every other sort of establishment to separate the American soldier from his money. From booze to babes to black-market shops to legitimate Thai retailers, the town was wide open and ready to provide whatever was wanted, for a price. I wasn’t particularly looking to meet anybody, since I was due to meet my wife in just three weeks. So right off I met the sweetest young thing imaginable. Her name was Kim, or so she told me, between licks on my ear with her soft, tickly tongue. She sat down beside me before I’d even ordered my meal, and introduced herself. She informed me that she was mine for the night for only five hundred baht, about twelve U.S. dollars. Kim was young (I was afraid to ask just how young), beautiful, and had been working as a bar girl only three months. That meant she had learned all the things Yankee soldiers liked to do, and yet hadn’t been completely jaded by the life of a whore. I was sorely tempted, and shall refrain from commenting further as to my strength of will. She was enthusiastic and fun, and we had a great time together. I bought her contract for a week and let her show me another side of Thailand.

  I had not meant to stray from the path of celibacy, yet looking back, it seems that I fell off the wagon awfully easily. You have to put yourself in my shoes. From the minute I arrived in Vietnam, I had decided I would not worry about tomorrow. That just made the war that much worse. I was given a gun, and told, within limits, to kill at will. So, I was full of the power I had. I was almost a god, myself. I know that when any firefight was over, my first thoughts were always erotic. I sort of understood that, feeling death so close, I wanted the soothing power of sex to remind me that I was still alive. And, of course, there was the very real possibility that I would die in Vietnam. I know I never would have strayed if I was away on a business trip back in the States, and I would have been deeply hurt if I found out my wife was doing the same to me while I was in Southeast Asia. But I was there, Kim was next to me, available without effort, and I yielded. I’ll answer for it later.

  While Kim wasn’t educated, she was no dummy, and we got into many an interesting discussion as to the merits of Thailand’s helping the United States in the war. During the next two weeks, whenever I was off duty, we were together. She helped me buy gifts for my family from the many merchants, and haggled the prices down from their original quotes with a flurry of rapid Thai. I saved enough on my gifts to pay her fee, and didn’t worry since I would have spent more just to have the pleasure of her company.

  One afternoon, Kim took me to visit her folks in their small village about an hour away from the base. Their home was grass and logs, built right over the rolling brown waters of some river. We could jump in off the back porch, and did, accompanied by several smaller brothers and sisters, who seemed fascinated by the white-skinned Yankee soldier their older sister had brought home. She took me to ancient Buddhist temples, the kind of thing one would see at Angkor Wat, in Cambodia. It was a memorable day.

  I enjoyed my visit with the Thai family and showered them with gifts purchased under the direction of Kim. Her folks were dirt poor, or they would never have allowed their oldest girl to go into prostitution. I had taken her into the base PX (post exchange) with me at Udorn, and her eyes nearly bugged out at the treasures available. I know she thought I was a rich man, the way I spent money on her, but then to her, all Americans were filthy rich. What we had together was just an interlude in time, apart from the demands of the war and life itself.

  My days and nights were busy, but in different directions. I enjoyed working with the flyboys, but considered myself a cut above most of them. They had it made; only a small number strapped themselves into a plane and went out where the bad guys were. And even they mostly just zipped by high up and dropped their big bombs on some poor unfortunate’s head before heading back to the barn for a cool one and a hard night’s partying. The unlucky ones, who ran into the telephone pole–size SAMs (surface-to-air missiles) that turned their planes into aluminium confetti, deserved my respect. Those pilots got to see the elephant up close, the way my men did when the bullets started flying. Only then did the flyboys’ bravery and willingness to sacrifice impress me. Another bunch of air force folks I really respected were the SAR (search and rescue) fliers. Those fellows had more guts than I ever thought about having. I had a chance to observe them in action later in my tour.

  The majority of the air force guys stayed back at the way-to-the-rear airfields, in a gentle country like Thailand with its gentle, beautiful women, and enjoyed the war from a distance. Of course, they worked hard and did what was asked of them, but still, to live in Udorn and get paid combat wages and never hear a gun fired at your ear … I guess that’s why I envied them so much.

  Only once did anything happen on my shift in the sky that I remember thirty years later. One afternoon, just before we were due to be relieved, I got a call from a CIA operative deep in northern Laos on a recon mission with some local Laotian soldiers. Contrary to what was said by the politicians, we were using Laotians against the NVA in a big way. The CIA advised them, using old SF retirees, or even men assigned to temporary duty with the agency. It was bad duty, since everything was secret, a backdoor operation, not out in the open like in Vietnam. The talk among us SF types was that if you got deep in the shit, the CIA would just write you off then recruit another fool to take your place.

  This particular CIA officer had just gone into his RON for the night when he came on the air, talking real soft. “Prairie Fire control, this is Eagle Three-three. Can you hear me? Over.”

  “Eagle Three-three, this is Sneaky on Prairie Fire Control. I hear you. Over.”

  “This is Eagle Three-three. A battalion of NVA are stopping almost on top of me.” He gave me the coordinates, which I logged in the activity book. “They’re all over the place. I’m shutting down for the night. Don’t call me until I check in tomorrow morning.”

  “This is Sneaky. Understand. You’re
going on radio silence until daylight. Do you want an air strike on your position?”

  “Neg, Sneaky. It would grease me with them. I’ll follow ’em tomorrow and give you coordinates for an air strike when I can. I’m shutting down now. They’re getting too close to talk anymore. Eagle Three-three out.”

  I passed on the information to my relief at the end of my shift and crossed my fingers for the brave American stuck in the middle of all those bad guys. For the next two days, we called for Eagle, but static-laced silence was the only reply. Another nameless hero added to the roster of the dead. If I try real hard, I can still hear his whisper in my ears. “Eagle Three-three calling Prairie Fire. Over.”

  It turned out to be a great two weeks, and I hated to leave, but all good things do come to an end. Almost before I knew it, I was saying good-bye to Kim, and her soft, brown eyes were overflowing. At the gate leading to my plane, I held her while she softly whispered her farewell, then I kissed her for the last time. I turned away, an ache in my heart. My eyes were misting over, and I nearly bumped into some new airmen arriving on the shuttle I was to leave on.

  I turned for one last wave, but Kim didn’t see me. She was giggling and talking to one of the new arrivals, trying to talk and stick her tongue in his ear at the same time. So much for love when it’s time to make some money.

  That gave me something to think about as I flew back to South Vietnam. There’s a time and place for everything, and just then, it was time for her to make hay while the sun was shining. If we hadn’t flooded her country with big-spending GIs like me, who had more money than good sense, she probably would be married to some young rice farmer, raising little Thai babies. Way to go, America!