I got back to Vietnam just in time to make a report to the big shots and pack for R & R in Hawaii, where my wife was waiting for me. She’d left our little grunts with her folks and headed over to the sun-caressed islands to soothe me and reward my sacrifice with six grand nights of passion. Wisely, I said nothing about where I had just been, or with whom.
My wife, so tall and darkly attractive, with her blue eyes and sweet breath, was a welcome sight after the shorter Vietnamese women who always smelled of nuoc mam sauce. Made from fermenting fish and vegetables, the condiment curled the hairs in your nose when you first smelled it.
Between love bouts in the bedroom or shower, we went all over the island, enjoying the sights and each other’s company. Hawaii went out of its way to welcome the GIs on R & R. Every evening, we ate at some beautiful restaurant, and at every establishment we were introduced, along with all the other Vietnam soldiers there with their spouses, to the rest of the guests. That sure made me feel proud. I will always feel a special place in my heart for the warm islands and their warmhearted people. They certainly made me feel welcome and appreciated, and that was at a time when many people in America were spitting at men in uniforms. Of course, we repaid the favor by pouring tons of money on their economy. Hopefully, everyone came out ahead.
Early one morning, we went to the USS Arizona Memorial in the waters of Pearl Harbor, and then to the Punchbowl National Cemetery. The quiet peacefulness of the places infused me with a sort of inner strength to continue. I knew if I fell to the enemy, I’d share the ground with brave soldiers and know everlasting peace. It was comforting in a morbid sort of way.
Too soon, it was over and I said good-bye to a teary wife as I fought to stay strong so she wouldn’t know how badly it hurt to leave her again. I headed back to CCN, hopeful my last half would go by as fast and as safely as my first. I didn’t stay awake long after the plane got off the ground. Love is a manysplendor’d thing, but it is tiring as can be, especially when you go all out trying to set the modern-day record in a week without a few time-outs. After hearing the boasts of fellow returnees to the combat zone, I didn’t bother to try and outbrag them; I still have trouble believing it can be done so often, so many different ways, in so short a time. But then, you know how soldiers like to stretch the truth when telling a story.
I would gladly have suffered through the rest of the war the way I had that month, if I’d only been asked; sadly, but not surprisingly, no one did.
9
Swizzle Dick Swanson
or
Fifteen Minutes of Fame
Every man hopes he will be a party to some great event in his lifetime. I was no exception. Fortunately, it happened to me. I was there when Dick Swanson got his immortal nickname. I had the good luck, or maybe misfortune, to know a happy-go-lucky mountain boy from Tennessee named Dick Swanson. Rather, SFC Richard Swanson, soon to be famous throughout I Corps as Swizzle Dick Swanson. His exploits will stand the test of time as one of the best of those whose name is etched on the Wall of Fame in the Kooks’ Hall of Heroes.
It all started on a quiet afternoon while I was conducting some business in the headquarters building. Colonel Isler had been promoted to full-bull, and moved on down to Saigon, as head of ground ops. A new lieutenant colonel named Donahue had replaced him. We wondered what idiots were running SF down in Nha Trang, since the new boss wasn’t SF qualified. Still, our job remained the same, so we pressed on. The bosses came and went, and the grunts did the dirty work. That was the army way.
“Hey, Nick,” the new CCN executive officer, Major Orentes, called to me from his office as I went past. “Step in here a second.” The Hispanic officer sat at his desk, doing the unending paperwork that XOs are cursed with as part of their job description. Dark, husky, and every inch a professional soldier, he was a welcome addition to CCN.
“Yes, sir. What’s up?”
“We’re being assigned an SFC from Nha Trang who tore up some bar in a drunken brawl. Apparently, he’s a first-class troublemaker, but you’re short a recon team sergeant since Holland rotated, so I’m assigning him to you. Try and keep him out of trouble, if that’s possible. Name’s Swanson, Richard Swanson. He’ll arrive tomorrow on the morning shuttle. Get him picked up and processed. Lay down the law, too. No horseshit screwing around, or he’ll end up guarding the garbage dump for the rest of his tour, and as a PFC.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. “Hey, I wonder if this is the same Dick Swanson I knew back at Fort Bragg? Hell, he’s about the best rifle shot in the army. Set the record at the sniper school a few years ago. I hope so. I could use a good sniper-team leader.”
“I don’t know,” the XO replied. “All I have on the man is that he’s gotten in more trouble than any three sailors on shore leave. You keep your eyes on him.”
Sure enough, the next morning who comes dragging off the plane but the very same Dick Swanson I remembered. He was red-eyed and obviously needing a strong dose of the hair of the dog, but he was indeed Sergeant First Class Swanson, sniper extraordinaire. He casually slid his lanky frame on the passenger seat of my jeep, and forlornly looked at the world around him.
I greeted him, told him who I was, and that he would be serving in my company. “Oh, yeah,” he finally nodded. “I remember you, Captain. Glad to be serving with ya agin.”
From my first impression, I had my doubts he remembered me or wanted to serve under me, but nodded and kept quiet during the drive back to CCN. Swanson sat slouched in his seat, barely able to stay awake, he was so hungover. Back at CCN, I gave him my standard speech on what I expected from my soldiers, plus a little bit more to satisfy the XO, and dismissed him with instructions to get some rest and show up ready for work the next day. As he left the little office my company used as headquarters, I called for Lieutenant McMurray.
My young XO showed up promptly and had a seat. “You wanted to see me, Dai Uy?”
I explained Swanson’s skills with the rifle and what I had in mind. “I’d like to give Sergeant Swanson command of Recon Team Asp,” I told Mac. “I thought we’d put the best shots from the company in it, and use them as the sniper team. They can support the rest of the company as long-range sniper support on the big operations.”
“Good idea, Dai Uy. More than once since I’ve been here, we could have used sniper support. I like it. I’ll get with the platoon leaders and draw up a team roster. The radio operator on Team Cobra has been to the 9th Division sniper school down in IV Corps, so I’ll transfer him over to Asp as the One-one.” (The team leader was called One-zero, and the American radio operator, who was the second in command, was called the One-one. Thus, when we talked on the radio to them, it would be: “Asp One-zero, this is Sneaky Six. Over.”)
To my delight, Swanson jumped in with both feet and became a damn good team leader. He worked hard training his men in the techniques of sniper support. I looked forward to the time when we could use Asp in a real mission. In the meantime, Swanson stayed out of trouble, and everything remained calm. I should have known a storm was coming. He was being too good, for Dick Swanson.
As I have previously mentioned, CCN’s location was on Da Nang Bay, right at the water’s edge. The ocean was a pleasant diversion on a hot afternoon, and just about everyone used it whenever possible. Most of the time, we would just go out the back gate, drop our drawers, and swim in the nude. Rarely was there any reason to wear a swimsuit, at least in our opinion.
In retrospect, I’m a little ashamed at our cavalier attitude toward the Vietnamese women who worked in the camp as hootch girls. I don’t think we ever thought of them as much more than pieces of furniture. More than once, I went swimming naked with some of my comrades, paying no attention to the women working just on the other side of the razor wire, washing clothes or polishing boots, and maybe, if they cared to look, watching us.
Down the beach, less than half a mile away, was the 3d Medevac Hospital, with a full complement of female nurses. The highlight of the evening bull ses
sions at the club would be after one of our soldiers wrangled a date with one of the desirable “round-eyes.” The nurses were usually much too experienced as women in a combat zone to ever take a chance on dating a horny-toad Special Forces soldier, especially one from CCN. Our bad reputation had been established long before I ever arrived in country. Our unofficial motto was, “Tomorrow we die, so let’s get it on tonight.”
Besides, those nurses who did date seemed to prefer the doctors from their own unit. The nurses at least knew what they were getting for their favors. A doctor’s future was much brighter than any long-range reconnaissance trooper’s could ever hope to be. Not that we gave a damn, but any self-respecting female ought to.
However, the nurses weren’t above sitting on their quarters’ patio with binoculars and scoping out the scene as we romped buck naked in the foamy surf. We saw them, and heard from our sources that it was a common practice for them when a bunch of us were at the beach. Most of us didn’t mind, and some were rather proud to flaunt what we hoped to be an impressive display of masculine hardware.
One sunny afternoon, I was at the beach with a couple of my officers, soaking up some rays, and running into the surf for a cooling dip every so often when Sergeant Swanson and a sergeant named Brian Krause showed up. Brian owned the only surfboard in Da Nang, and he and Dick used it on the puny waves of the bay now and then. They stripped off and splashed around a while, and then came up above the surf line to warm up.
While we were sitting there, the conversation got around to the fact that some nurses were watching us from their patio. Swanson shaded his eyes and looked in the direction we pointed. Then he got up and strolled down to the water, stood there looking at the waves, and then came back.
“Damn right,” he whispered conspiratorialy. “One of them gals is a-watching me right now. I can feel her eyes followin’ every move I make. By God, I’m gonna go down there and get me a date. I haven’t had any round-eye pussy since I left the States.”
“Come on, Dick,” I scoffed. “Those nurses won’t date any slobs like us, and besides, they’re all officers. They wouldn’t go out with a sergeant, not with all the brass around here who’d give their eyeteeth to get into their panties. It’d just be a waste of energy, walking all the way down there.” I rolled over to roast my back a while.
Everyone grunted agreement, and hooted ridicule at poor old Swanson’s audacity. Suddenly, I heard someone say, “Damn, he’s gonna do it.” I looked up in amazement.
Sure enough, Dick had pulled on his shorts and was jogging down the beach, headed right toward those poor nurses, bold as brass.
In about an hour, just as we were ready to go back inside the wire, certain that he was locked up in the Da Nang guardhouse, here he came, jogging up the beach, a satisfied smile on his lean kisser. He wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, lean as a mountain lion, black hair, and deep blue eyes. He was as tough as a Tennessee mule, which is where he grew up, and hung just about as good. He’d carried a first-class reputation as a swordsman back at Fort Bragg. A girl could have done worse.
“How’d it go, Casanova?” I asked, certain he’d been shot down in flames.
“Not too bad, Dai Uy,” he replied. “Got me a date Saturday night with a sweet little nurse. We’re eatin’ at the Stone Elephant, and then headin’ to downtown Da Nang for some serious partying.” The Stone Elephant was the navy officers’ club in Da Nang city and had the best food in I Corps, bar none.
“Well I’ll be a cross-eyed SOB,” I muttered. “I never thought you could do it. Congratulations!”
We crowded round, asking questions of the hero of the day. Old Swanson made numerous boasts as to what was in store for the unfortunate gal of his current desires, and we all awaited Saturday with eager anticipation. Dick might just open the doors a little for us with the hard-to-get-at nurses.
By Saturday evening, the whole camp was in a dither, anxious to hear the conclusion to the saga of the nurse and Sergeant Swanson.
I was talking with my XO, Lieutenant McMurray, and he mentioned that some of the TOC officers were going to eat at the Stone Elephant and were hoping to get a glimpse of Swanson’s date.
“Good idea,” I chortled. “Let’s go ourselves. I’d like to see who’s crazy enough to date that wild man anyway. I’ll take all the company officers with us.”
As soon as we were ready, we piled into a couple of jeeps and headed for the Stone Elephant, jittery as the parents of a teenager on his or her first date.
The bar was filled just the way it was most every night, largely with navy officers, a sprinkle of air force and army types adding color. The stools at the bar were filled with mostly younger customers, all drinking hard and shouting to be heard over the general noise level.
We grabbed a table and sat down. Mac nudged me in the ribs. “There he is,” he said, pointing with his thumb at the end of the long bar.
“There he is,” was an understatement: Swanson was resplendent in a wild, flowered luau shirt and tan slacks, freshly shaven, his unruly black hair plastered down with Brylcreem. Next to him sat a pleasant-looking nurse, reasonably attractive. Even though her butt was already overflowing the bar stool, that night, in that place, she looked pretty damned good. Swanson was busy trying to sweet-talk her, but she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to him. In fact, she really seemed much more interested in the man to her right, an older man, dressed in civvies, by his age probably a major or better. From the way he was monopolizing the conversation, it seemed certain he was shooting poor old Swanson out of the saddle before Dick even got on.
We watched the little drama unfold, Swanson trying hard to be cool and carry on a conversation, and the chunky nurse turning more and more of her attention toward the other guy. After a while, Swanson quit trying, and just sat there nursing his drink. By then, the other two were deep into conversation, faces to each other, oblivious to the world around them. Poor old Swanson was shut out and shot down, and he didn’t like it. I could read that on his face, which grew grimmer with each drink that he chugged down—and he was draining them as fast as the Vietnamese bartender could deliver them.
While we watched, awaiting the outcome of the sideshow, the bartender brought another round of drinks to the trio, courtesy of Swanson’s date’s new friend, and sat them in front of the threesome. Swanson looked at his date. She had eyes only for the guy on her right. Without her noticing, Swanson carefully took his date’s drink and turned to face the floor, his back to her. Swiftly, he unzipped his pants, took out his monster weenie, and dropping it in the cold drink, stirred the fluid for an instant. Then, he calmly tucked his whizzer back into his pants, zipped up, and replaced the drink on the bar.
The room became almost deathly silent. Those who saw what had happened quickly told those who didn’t. Everyone waited to see the next scene in the little drama unfold. Swanson just sat quietly, nursing his drink, paying no attention to the pair beside him. The whole bar just waited in breathless anticipation. The silence grew deafening.
The talking twosome suddenly realized the bar was quiet, and looked around to see what was going on. The nurse didn’t like it. Somehow, she seemed to sense her involvement in a drama, even though she didn’t know how.
An annoyed frown on her face, she nervously reached for her drink. We watched and waited, the room absolutely quiet. She lifted the glass to her lips. She took a big gulp … The place exploded in pent-up hysteria.
I’m not sure that I have ever laughed so hard in my life. I was guffawing and coughing and pounding Mac on the arm. Everyone was carrying on hysterically except the three main actors. Swanson just sat, stoically sipping his drink and looking straight ahead. The nurse and her friend glared around the room, knowing something had occurred at their expense, but not sure what.
The uproar went on and on, and just when it seemed to be drying up, someone would laugh and start it again. People were streaming in from the outside to see what had happened. When told, their laughter added fresh fue
l to keep the fire going.
Wiping tears from my eyes, I went up and grabbed Swanson’s arm. “Come on, partner, it’s time to get back to camp.” Leaning over to the fellow who had won Swanson’s date away, I asked, “You’ll get the lady home for him, won’t you?” I felt like adding, “Be sure not to kiss her good-night.” But, I didn’t, and I always wondered if he did. If so, and he reads this … surprise!
I knew the bartender would have the shore patrol there shortly so we piled into the jeep and roared away. All the way to camp, we laughed and hooted at the hilarious conclusion to the evening’s little drama. “What the hell were you thinking of?” I asked the more than a little drunk Swanson after we caught our breath.
“Hell,” he answered. “I just felt like my dingus was hot and tired and decided to give it a bath. I knew it would have to be a cold one, since I wasn’t gonna get no lovin’ from that bitch. ’Sides, her drink needed stirrin’ and there weren’t no swizzle sticks available.”
Laughing harder still, I shouted, “Swizzle Dick Swanson, you slay me. You’re the craziest SOB I ever met.”
Thus, Swizzle Dick Swanson got his name, and his fame endures today, at least in the memory of those who saw it or heard the story. Those who knew Dick never doubted the veracity of the tale, either.
It didn’t take long for the story to spread, and Swizzle Dick was the toast of the camp. I don’t think a nurse ever went out with a CCN soldier from then on, but so what? We had a man of fame with us, good for free drinks at most any bar in South Vietnam. It was better than any date would have turned out. Swanson became a hero to every grunt who watched the few available women in the godforsaken country date the big brass and ignore him.
Like all famous incidents, Dick’s time in the limelight faded fast, and we got back to the business of the war.
15 Months in SOG Page 11