Tiger Force

by Michael Sallah

  Green agreed. He hated the mines and didn’t want to spend his life frying eggs in the family diner. Globe was a dead end in a dead land. Vietnam it would be.

  On the morning of August 10, the 150 soldiers in B Company crowded into the transport trucks idling along Highway One, followed by C Company. Last came the Tigers. One by one, the men hopped on the canvas-covered vehicles. Of course staying on base was easier, but now that the game was on, the Tigers were ready for it. “Most of us couldn’t wait to go,” recalled Carpenter. As the men readied themselves for the trip, they looked around to see who was in the trucks. Conspicuously absent was Wood. What they didn’t know was that the Tigers’ forward artillery observer had been ordered to pack his gear. He was no longer a Tiger. He was being shipped to another unit. His efforts to counter Hawkins were over. Any hopes he held of winning over the men one by one—men such as Bill Carpenter, Ervin Lee, and Forrest Miller—were over. This was how the Army was going to deal with his complaints about atrocities: transfer the messenger. The move was significant on many levels. Wood was a leader who reminded the others that, even in war, there was a code of honor—and without one, the men were not warriors but murderers. In combat units, one such person can make a difference, partly because he keeps the “weaker” soldiers from crossing the line. He is a constant reminder of what’s right. As the trucks pulled away, a key link in the chain connecting Tiger Force to the rule of law was severed.

  CHAPTER 14

  Most of the Tigers had never visited Chu Lai—ten miles long and five miles wide, bordered by a beach covered with white sand and palm trees, and in the distance, mountain islands rising over the horizon. It was once a thriving fishing village, but by now most of the huts that lined the shoreline had been leveled by the U.S. military to set up one of the largest air bases in the country.

  As the Tigers arrived, they were led to a small area near the beach and away from the barracks. They were allowed to use the latrines and showers to the west of the barracks, but they were not assigned to their own building like other units. They pitched tents along the shore, while the pilots of the air base were allowed to sleep in bunks. To Carpenter and others, it felt as if they were being purposely isolated.

  After unpacking their equipment, the Tigers were given permission to walk around. They were struck by the steady stream of F-4 Phantoms and B-52s landing and taking off. Though the Tigers were technically on stand-down, several soldiers were fidgety. While walking along the roadways connecting the barracks, the Tigers noticed they were being watched by MPs.

  What the Tigers didn’t know was that a complaint had been filed days earlier over the looting and torching of the Marine service center. The Army had no intention of investigating. It needed the Tigers for the battalion’s operations in the new province. Instead, battalion officers agreed to keep close tabs on the Tigers at their new base by notifying the military police at Chu Lai.

  Most of the time, the Tigers were oblivious to the larger political and military decisions. They had no idea the commanders were putting so much emphasis on wresting control of Quang Tin to win the war, or that Westmoreland had promised victory by the end of the year—“light at the end of the tunnel.” Recalled Kerney, “We were operating in a vacuum when we got there. We only knew what we had to do day to day.”

  Before leaving the base, the Tigers had been told they were being sent into the area to look for an enemy encampment believed to belong to the 26th Company of the 2nd North Vietnamese Army Division. From the air, the landscape of Quang Tin was noticeably different than that of the Song Ve. As the four Hueys carrying the platoon members swooped over the area twenty miles northwest of Chu Lai, there were no rice paddies below. “You got nothing but jungle down there,” said Hawkins. In some places, the trees rose with the mountainous terrain. It took several minutes for the lead chopper to find a landing zone, and just beyond what appeared to be a stream, the choppers set down.

  Intelligence reports said the unit was moving east toward the air base. The soldiers disembarked and headed for what they thought was a tree line. When they passed through the first row, however, they found a jungle path into an area so dense the trees almost completely blocked the sun’s rays. Walking single file, the Tigers followed the trail, at times using their knives to slash through thick vines barring the way.

  The men had been warned about snipers in trees and booby traps camouflaged by palm fronds and jungle orchids. They were also told to be on the lookout for hamlets that seemed to blend into the vegetation.

  In the darkness of the jungle, Ybarra stumbled upon a dozen huts shrouded by palm trees and mangroves. He turned around and whispered to Green, who then passed the word down the line.

  Following Ybarra, the soldiers stopped, raised their rifles, and inched toward the hamlet. There didn’t seem to be any movement until two villagers surprised the men by jumping from a hut. Ybarra and Green opened fire, hitting the men and then spraying the hooches with bullets. The villagers fell to the ground, but as the Tigers approached, shots were fired at the Americans. Most of the Tigers jumped back into the brush and then scattered in several directions. Ybarra and Green fired back, but it was too dark to see from where the enemy rounds were fired, and the Tigers couldn’t call in air strikes because the platoon was too close.

  In the past, they would designate a spot to regroup, but there was no time to set up an area. Instead, the Tigers had to go on the offensive. Almost in unison, they began firing their M16s into the huts. The rounds lit up the jungle, and after several minutes, the shooting stopped. The Tigers started inching toward the clearing, not sure if the snipers were hit or were setting up another ambush.

  Ybarra was the first to walk into the hamlet, followed by Green and others. They passed by two dead bodies as they entered the first hut, looked inside, and then moved to the next. Kerrigan and Miller followed, searching each hut for weapons and more bodies. The only living things they found were some newborn puppies in a small woven basket. No American had been killed, but this much was clear: Quang Tin was a dangerous place. Unlike the Song Ve, where the Tigers could call a chopper and be whisked away, this was no-man’s-land.

  An hour after the ambush, the Tigers were still trying to figure out where to go next. They didn’t know for sure if the hamlet was an NVA encampment or simply an outpost. Team leaders surmised the NVA didn’t know how many American soldiers were in the area; otherwise they would have stood their ground. They certainly had the advantage, since they knew the terrain.

  The Tigers gathered for a moment on the edge of the clearing and waited for a radio transmission from Chu Lai about whether to continue looking for the encampment.

  From his seat in the command-and-control chopper, Gerald Morse could see the clearing where the Tigers had landed just before their firefight. “Take it down here,” he told his pilot. The lean, muscular lieutenant colonel was the new battalion commander, taking over for Harold Austin. Most of the Tigers had never set eyes upon Morse. He had been monitoring their radio activity during the skirmish and had impulsively decided now was the perfect time to introduce himself to the platoon members.

  After touching down, Morse emerged from the chopper—crew cut, starched shirt, and all. He walked over to the Tigers who were standing near the huts and asked why no one had answered his call on the radio. Doyle jumped up. He was supposed to monitor the transmissions but had missed the signal. “Who the hell are you?” Doyle asked.

  “Your new commander,” Morse responded.

  The Tigers were surprised. They had rarely, if ever, seen a battalion commander in the field. But unlike his predecessor, Morse was not going to lead his troops from the rear. At thirty-eight, he had been a career soldier, and a brave one, earning a Silver Star for pulling seventeen men from a minefield at T-Bone Hill in Korea. In the same war, he was awarded two Purple Hearts for action at Triangle Hill and Pork Chop Hill. For most battalion commanders, a battlefield assignment was a sure way to get a promotion, and Morse was on
the fast track.

  A physical education major at the University of Maine, Morse was fit, trim, and energetic—a prototypical combat leader—who understood military definitions of success in the Vietnam War. Before taking command on August 9, he had been told by Army brass about the importance of the Central Highlands campaign. It was his first major assignment in the war, and he didn’t waste any time. Within twenty-four hours of taking over, he was already in the air. As his command-and-control chopper soared over a rice paddy, the gunners spotted four suspected Vietcong running and shot two dead. In the command log, it was noted that Morse’s first mission was a way to show the “battalion was deadly at any echelon of the command.”

  While talking to Doyle, the new commander could see several Tigers about twenty-five meters away, standing in a shallow stream. As he approached the men, he saw them dunking puppies underwater. “Why are you drowning the dogs?” he asked.

  Doyle immediately responded, “Because they’re making too much noise.”

  Morse frowned but wheeled around and walked away. He knew about the Tigers, and what he knew, he liked. They were going to be an indispensable unit in the new campaign. He supposed that how they treated dogs didn’t matter. Heck, they were probably right to kill them.

  Morse nodded to Hawkins and then walked back to his chopper and ordered the pilot to take off. Other choppers were called to pick up the platoon. As Morse’s helicopter disappeared over the trees, several Tigers looked at one another. “We knew,” recalled Carpenter, “this guy was different.” Just how different, they would learn.

  CHAPTER 15

  Terrence Kerrigan used to be predictable. He would ride the saddle on patrol—walking the middle—never venturing far from the pack. At camp, he would get stoned on pot instead of getting drunk with the others. He would joke that he was going AWOL and surfing. “The guy was always smiling,” recalled Kerney.

  But two weeks into the new campaign, he was changing. At first it was subtle: he was quiet but every now and then would blurt out a jagged, sarcastic remark. His once clean-shaven face was covered with a rough beard. He wasn’t bathing, and he was losing weight, sporting dark circles under his eyes.

  Kerrigan was sitting within earshot of the men but wasn’t listening. He was rocking back and forth on the ground. Ever since the end of the Song Ve campaign, he had started this habit. His old team from the valley knew why, but no one really talked about it.

  While venturing into a burned-out hamlet in the Song Ve, the soldiers had discovered a Vietnamese man curled up behind a tree, trying to hide. When they frisked him and didn’t find any weapons, Trout had ordered Kerrigan to shoot the detainee.

  Surprised, Kerrigan had asked about a chopper.

  Trout snapped, “We ain’t gonna give our position away. Shoot him.”

  Kerrigan was on the spot. Trout was testing him. Slowly, he raised his M16, clutching the rifle to keep from twitching. He could see the man shaking uncontrollably as he kneeled on the ground. Kerrigan had used his gun before but had never killed anyone.

  He detested the order but knew in his heart he had to obey. Trout was keeping Kerrigan alive. He had taught him how to pack lightly and only the things he needed, and how to creep low under fire. He had taught him how to recognize an ambush and avoid trip wires that could trigger explosions. Kerrigan believed he had a better chance of surviving with the team sergeant than without him.

  Kerrigan had squeezed the trigger.

  In slow motion, he had watched as the man’s head exploded, his body jerking into the air and falling backward. Kerrigan had quickly turned around. He felt like vomiting but didn’t want anyone to see him. So he walked into the brush. After a few minutes, he caught up with the team as they were leaving. Strangely, he felt better. He had crossed a line, and for some reason, it wasn’t so unseemly.

  Now, here he was, three weeks later, clutching his M16 and waiting. As the chopper landed, he ran with the others and hopped aboard, sitting down next to Ybarra and Green. The Tigers had been deployed to a new area around the base every day, but this time, they were going to a place where American soldiers had rarely ventured: the mountains of the Que Son. Lately, Kerrigan had been hanging out with the two friends and recently discovered he had gone to grade school with Ybarra’s cousin Linda at Denker Avenue Elementary School in Gardena, California. No one would have guessed the two shared anything in common.

  From the air, the Tigers could see the Que Son Valley in the distance. Intelligence reports gathered from prisoners warned that a battalion of NVA soldiers was boldly setting up encampments in the valley and the river that runs through the basin. General Rosson’s staff was concerned the NVA would soon control a chunk of the province from the Que Son to the South China Sea—a fifteen-kilometer stretch that included Highway One. The Tigers needed to find the camps and engage the enemy, if need be.

  For the Tigers, it was a difficult assignment. Other U.S. units had skirted the Que Son but had not been deployed there for any extended periods. The terrain was dense and the trails were heavily mined. Maps showed some cities but did not reflect the scores of hamlets deep in the mountains.

  Barry Bowman dreaded the thought of going into another unknown area. The villages around Chu Lai were difficult enough because of the underground tunnels and bunkers. But at least in their initial patrols, the Tigers had run into only one ambush—that first day. Now they were being sent twenty kilometers northwest of Chu Lai for a recon mission that could last several weeks. Everything about it spelled trouble.

  As a Tiger Force medic since May, Bowman had patrolled the Song Ve as well as the new province and was coming to a realization that the war was not changing. The Army could call in dozens of air strikes and destroy dozens of encampments, but nothing seemed to deter the enemy. As he sat in the chopper, Bowman checked his supplies of bandages, medicine, and syringes.

  The Tigers didn’t have to search for long. Just before landing south of the valley, they located huts with people milling around. The Tigers gathered near Hawkins, who pointed in the direction of the hamlet. The people in this area had long been told to leave. Rather than divide the group into teams, he had the platoon walk single file through a thicket of elephant grass, hacking their way through the tall, sharp stalks until they reached a narrow trail. Before long, no one knew for sure where the village was located. The maps were useless. Not knowing what else to do, with Ybarra and Green at the point, the men followed the trail as it led eastward.

  After walking for several minutes, the Tigers were startled by gunshots. At first, the men in the rear thought the shots were from the point men, but as bullets began flying around them, platoon members realized they were under attack. Barnett and other team leaders yelled for the men to hit the ground. Before Private James Messer could move, he was hit by an onslaught that seemed to come from snipers in the trees. An eighteen-year-old newcomer from Springfield, Massachusetts, Messer was one of the new paratroopers to join the Tigers at Chu Lai. It was Messer’s first day in the jungle. Bowman ran to the injured soldier, who wasn’t moving.

  The Tigers began blasting into the brush, using their M16s and grenade launchers. They didn’t know how many enemy soldiers were in the trees, nor did they stop to care. Ybarra watched as one sniper dropped from a tree, followed by two more. After several minutes, the soldiers stopped firing. Ybarra rushed to the first body lying on the ground. He then went to the second and to the third. They were all dead NVA soldiers.

  For the Tigers, this wasn’t a good sign. For the enemy to be in trees meant that they were entrenched—and waiting. How many more were out there?

  Even though the Tigers had been in the field for a while, this was spooky terrain: dark, jungle, and a long way from the line companies. There were no clear trails, and the vines were so thick they knotted the trees, shutting out the light but trapping the heat. Every now and then, the silence was shattered by an elephant screaming in the distance or, even closer, the shriek of a wild monkey. The South Viet
namese translators warned the Tigers to look out for bamboo vipers, a green snake so venomous, one bite would attack the nervous system, causing convulsions and, soon, death. The Tigers were also told about black jungle leeches, inch-long insects that dropped from trees, attached to the flesh, and left painful welts.

  The Song Ve Valley had also been dangerous, but at least it was a picture-postcard of natural beauty compared to this place. The green mountains rising above the spectacular expanse had resembled Hawaii—with the rushing blue waters of the Song Ve River winding through the basin, palm trees and banana groves everywhere. This place was a hellhole.

  Bowman could feel his body tense. How many more were hiding? He didn’t want to die, not here. As he looked around, he could see everyone was just as vulnerable as he was. His job was to care for the wounded, but he couldn’t even take care of himself. He had kept everything bottled inside, but now he was going to explode. His heart was pounding and he gasped for breath. “Gotta get out, gotta get out,” he kept saying to himself.

  His fellow medic Douglas Teeters had just a few weeks left before shipping out. This was no place to die, and yet, it was: triple canopy, where the vines from the mangroves wrapped like snakes around the trees, creating a virtual wall blocking the sunlight. It was so dark. How would the Tigers even know if an entire battalion was coming toward them? “Stay close to the others,” he said to himself.

  After regrouping, the platoon members decided to look for a village they had passed over in the choppers just before being dropped off. It was possible the village was actually serving as the enemy camp. If not, they could set up a perimeter around the village and call in a medevac.

  The Tigers moved single file down a trail with the medics carrying Messer’s body. Within minutes, they spotted a circle of huts, wondering if this was the hamlet they saw from the air. The men broke into teams and started looking into the huts. After searching a dozen hooches, the Tigers came up empty, though it appeared people had been there earlier. After several soldiers surrounded the hamlet, a team leader called for a chopper to land in the same spot where the Tigers had originally been dropped off.