I Am Soldier of Fortune

by Brown, Robert, Spencer, Vann

  WHAT THE HELL, LET’S GET A GREEN BERET . . .

  The SFOC was my type of action. Our class of about sixty was split up into 12-man “A” Teams, the basic building block of the SF command structure. The team I was on split up almost immediately into two factions. One faction believed in doing everything strictly by the book and the second believed in doing whatever it took to accomplish the mission and screw the regs. Not too hard to figure which group I cast my lot with. The division almost got nasty on a couple of occasions, with serious punch-ups barely avoided.

  Fed up with regs, I contributed to one of those conflicts during our graduation field exercise. After running around the woods for a couple of weeks, the “plan” called for the final exercise to consist of the main body of SF officer students to paddle down a river in rubber boats and blow a bridge—simulated of course. Our specific team was to recon the area of operations. We had a two-man team on 24-hour surveillance near the bridge. As darkness set in, our surveillance team radioed in the warning that gun jeeps of the 82nd Airborne Division, who were playing the part of the counter-guerilla forces and who, according to the lesson plan, were scheduled to win, had positioned their gun jeeps along the bank of the river and would ambush our main force (with blanks of course) as they paddled down the river. Gun jeeps vs troops in open rubber boats? It would have been a massacre. Now, the hassle between the two groups in our A-Team got heated.

  One faction said, “Look we’re not in radio comm with our headquarters. We are unable to alert them to the ambush. We must blow the bridge before the 82nd gets into their final positions.”

  The by-the-book bozos said, “No, if we do that, we’ll screw up the whole exercise. The grand finale firefight is scheduled for 2000 hrs., which is to be followed by the beer blast and barbeque. We’ve got to follow the lesson plan.”

  “Screw the lesson plan! You know damn well that when you develop new Intel that is going to impact on the success of the mission that you adjust your plans.”

  The argument continued until the by-the-book team leader laid down the law, “We were going to do it according to the lesson plan.”

  As our detachment moved to its destruction, I grabbed a hold of Captain Lopez, another one of the team renegades, and pulled him to the rear of our column.

  “Look, Lopez, this is bullshit! Screw the lesson plan. Since you and I are the team demo men and we have the prima cord and fuse lighters, let’s steal a boat and blow the bridge ourselves.” He replied. “Let’s go steal a boat and screw the regs.” Stealing boats was our own brilliant improvisation, and of course against the regs.

  We moved down to the river and after 50 yards we found a not-too-waterproof rowboat without oars. We picked up a couple of planks, crawled in and cast off. Quietly paddling for half-an-hour, we beached the boat a hundred yards from the bridge, and stealthily conducted a recon right up to the bridge itself. Ah ha! No bad guys on the bridge. They were all smoking and joking waiting for the fireworks to begin in an hour. We could approach the bridge without being observed.

  “Lopez,” I whispered, “let’s move.”

  We hustled back to the boat, paddled up to the bridge, wired the bridge with our dummy charges and the prima cord, which would not cause any damage but would make a hell of a racket. We pulled the fuse lighters and paddled like mad. Within moments all hell broke loose. The prima cord exploded and the gun jeeps started firing blanks at who knows what. We paddled to the riverbank and rejoined our team. The referees/ exercise monitors were running around screaming, “What happened? It’s not time yet! The chicken isn’t barbequed! Terminate the exercise!”

  The instructors were really pissed at us for fouling up their carefully laid plans and wouldn’t speak to us during the rest of the course, though one did admit off the record that we had done the right thing.

  BROWN DECIDES HE IS NEEDED IN VIETNAM . . .

  After completing SFOC in 1965, I was accepted into the SF counter-insurgency course, which had euphemistically been renamed, “Internal Defense and Development.” While there, I made inquiries about getting a piece of the action in Vietnam. One of the instructors, a Lt. Colonel, suggested that I investigate signing on with the USAID program for Nam. He gave me the name of a contact in the State Department who I hustled up to see immediately after graduation. I called in the middle of a Friday afternoon and told him who I was and he told me to come on over—on a Friday afternoon no less! I did so and after a brief interview in which I detailed my publishing experience and interest in guerrilla warfare as well as my pirating around with the Miami soldier-of-fortune, Cuban and Haitian exile crowd, he said, “Let me call someone.” He dialed and chuckled, “Sam, I’ve got somebody you need to see. He’s a soldier-of-fortune type . . . would fit right in your outfit.”

  I suppressed a gasp and figured I was screwed. But what the hell? I headed over to his office about 1600hrs, and after a short chat, Sam Simpson, who was director of A.I.D. recruiting, said, “We’ve got the perfect spot for you as an Assistant Province Advisor. $15,000 a year plus 25 % hardship allowance and 12-month language school in Hawaii.” As I had some notion of coming back to the States and getting into academia, this sounded like an appropriate stepping stone. It was an opportunity for action, as well as a chance to do some good. “Brown, it’s a near done deal. We’ll be in touch and bring you back here for further interviews and a physical.”

  A couple of weeks later, I winged into DC at Uncle Sam’s expense, where I was told, “You don’t need to see this guy, no need to see that guy. With your Special Forces background and experience working with those crazies in Miami, you’ll just be wasting everybody’s time as we’re going to hire you in any case.” I took the test to evaluate my ability to learn the Vietnamese language and only passed because they had dropped the standards the preceding week. The last hurdle was a physical with one of State’s physicians. He was in a hurry as it was again Friday afternoon late, and at the end of it, he asked, “How’s your hearing?” I replied, “What?” And he said, “Go on and get out of here. You passed and I’m late for my golf game.” “O.K. Doctor Death,” I muttered to myself and bailed.

  A couple of weeks later I called Simpson and asked him how my application was progressing. “Not to worry. We’re in the process of completing your security check and then you’re on your way.” A week later, I got a form letter, something to the effect: “Dear Mr. Brown, We regret to inform you that we have found we have a number of individuals who are better qualified for the position for which you have applied. Thank you for your interest.” The establishment had sold me out and I knew it. I knew enough about the intelligence community to figure out that anyone who was out of the ordinary was as about as popular as a tertiary case of syphilis. I wrote a letter to a Senator to look into the matter but got no response. And that was the end of that. I had no doubt I got deep-sixed because of my shenanigans with the Cubans.

  MY DECLASSIFIED CIA FILES TELL ALL

  When the Army notified me that I was transferred from the Intelligence Branch to Infantry, I had assumed that it was because I had completed the Infantry Officer’s Advanced Course. I figured they had put me in the Intelligence Branch then realized their administrative screw-up and decided that I was now more qualified to be an Infantry rather than an Intelligence officer. I didn’t find out the real reason until sometime in the ‘90’s when I was contacted by a A.J. Weberman, who was researching a book on the Kennedy assassination and who offered to trade me copies of documents from my declassified CIA files for a lifetime subscription to SOF. Such a deal!

  What I read in the files knocked off my proverbial socks. When the CIA investigated me to find out to what degree I was involved in Garrison’s investigation of the Kennedy assassination, they pulled my Counter-Intelligence Corps records. The records revealed that:

  Subject’s military service file was reviewed by a Review Action Board on i7 September 1964 to determine Subject’s retention in the administrative field. Removal of Subject’s Intell
igence MOS was predicated upon Subject’s apparent pro-Castro activities prior to 1960 and anti-Castro activities after then. It was noted that most of Subject’s overt activities both pro and anti-Castro took place after his release from active duty with the CIC MOS . . . and during a period when he still had a Reserve obligation. Note was made of Subject’s trips to Cuba and his authorship of news articles resulting in an official protest by a friendly foreign government as evidence of Subject’s poor judgment. (While in Cuba in 1958 Subject wrote an article for the Associated Press concerning the possibility of General Alberto BAYO beginning a revolution against the Franco government in Spain.BAYO was a former officer in the Spanish Republican Air Force, long time communist sympathizer, and supporter of Castro. The article appeared in the 7 April 1959 European edition of the Stars and Stripes and promptly resulted in official protests by the Spanish Government to the Departments of State and Army. In 1963, Subject published a handbook on guerilla warfare allegedly authored by BAYO.)

  Subject attended the Infantry Officers Associate Career Course at Fort Benning, beginning in October 1963 and appeared to his classmates and faculty members as being irrational in his outlook on anything connected with Communism. This change of opinion on Subject’s part concerning Castro resulted in his active participation in affairs of Cuban exiles and attempts to raise fund for weapons to be used against Castro. These anti-Castro efforts on Subject’s part were believed to demonstrate a lack of discretion incompatible with the standards of the members of the Counter-Intelligence Corps. On 25 September 1964 Subject’s Intelligence MOS was revoked and he was declared ineligible for any intelligence assignment.

  All true and I have no regrets. Screw the Colonel Blimps.

  BACK TO MY OLD FALLBACK, THE ARMY

  So what to do? Might as well go the Army route to Vietnam. I knew full well that the Army would also run a background check and undoubtedly find out the same shit that deep-sixed me with USAID. I confirmed this suspicion in Miami hanging with the soldiers of fortune and the Cuban exiles when I ran into a young SF Reserve trooper. He had volunteered for active duty in S.E. Asia, been assigned to the SF 46th Company in Thailand, and after six months was shipped back home when the investigators found out he had been working with some of the non-CIA Cuban exile groups.” Yeah, I said, “But you were just being “unconventional” and working against that bearded tinhorn dictator.” He shook his head. “It’s not right, but that’s the way it is. They don’t want anybody out of the main-stream.”

  I had no doubt what the outcome would be when they updated my security clearance. But I also knew it would take the Army machine six months to complete a background check, and my plan was, after getting to Nam and they found out I was one of Peck’s bad boys, I would have had at least six months combat time and hopefully see the elephant—more than once—and whack a few bad guys. And then the Army could go get lost. I submitted my application to return to active duty in 1966, and got rejected because I was too old for my rank. A few months later I tried again and was accepted, as Mr. Charles and the NVA were blowing away too many company grade infantry officers, which included captains.

  I got orders for Special Forces and reported to Ft. Bragg on 27 December 1967. I was going to stick to my plan of keeping my mouth shut until I saw that they had assigned me to G-2, which was Intelligence. Upon reporting to the then acting Chief of Staff for Intelligence, I decided, rightfully or wrongfully, I had best fess up to some of the more lurid aspects of my career. “Sir, I think you ought know that I was investigated for allegedly being involved in the Kennedy assassination. Also, I’ve been working on a manuscript which is an exposure of how screwed up the CIA is in their covert and clandestine operations targeted against Castro and yada, yada, yada.” After a few minutes of this, squirming in his chair, he said, “Captain, go on leave and we’ll pull your background files.” I saluted smartly, about-faced and moved out.

  When I returned there was a new Assistant Chief of Staff, Intelligence, who brusquely informed me, “Brown, we’ve pulled your file. You’re not going to be in intelligence anymore. Report to Personnel.” “Yes, sir,” I replied and once again moved out smartly to Personnel where I was brusquely informed, “Captain, you’re not going to be in SF anymore.” This moving out smartly routine was getting old.

  For a couple of weeks, I was a pariah amongst my Green Beret peers as the rumor got around that I had been doing bad things before I came back on active duty.

  I PLAY CHICKEN WITH THE TOP BRASS

  Then a full Colonel in the Personnel section of the Pentagon called me. I remember it clearly. “Brown, damn it, someone failed to update your security clearance before you received orders to active duty!!” Gotcha, mother! Having been in the CIC, I was well aware that to revoke or downgrade my “Top Secret” clearance, the Army was required “to prove cause.” So, I can imagine the Army establishment’s quandary. What do they tell me, which they damn well know would go directly to the media and read something like this:”Special Forces Captain Brown, who has volunteered to go to Vietnam, is being cashiered because while he was researching a manuscript on CIA activities in South Florida, he ripped the cover off over 27 CIA covert operations?” No, I don’t think so. I would have given my left nut to be a fly on the wall and see how they handled this hot potato.

  The mystery deepens. Couple of weeks later, the same Colonel calls me and asks me what I want to do.

  “All I want to do is to go to Nam with Special Forces,” I replied.

  “Not going to happen,” he snapped back.”You’ll do six months stateside like every other reservist coming back on active duty before shipping out. What schools do you want to go to? Language school? Ranger school?”

  This blew my mind. The Army personnel office was not in the habit of asking junior officers what they wanted to do, even if they walked on water. I was trudging thru BS up to my knees. Why he made this almost unheard of offer is on my list of many unsolved mysteries.

  The good Colonel told me to hustle my ass over to XVIII Corps G-3 and get assigned for the rest of my tour stateside. I met the assistant G-3, a relatively decent Lt. Colonel who gave me a choice. “Captain, you can either be in charge of ROTC training for the summer or you can be the Officer in Charge of the Corps Advanced Marksmanship Unit.” Holy Cow, Marley, throw me into the briar patch. My angel/gremlin scored another one for me.

  I couldn’t have created a more desirable slot if I tried. Generally speaking, shooters are exceptional troops, since they have the self-discipline to perform under stress on the firing line, so it was far less likely that they would cause problems. Also, it was a whale of a lot more rewarding to spend your days on firing ranges than doing some bullshit job that a lot of my NCO’s suffered through in their assigned unit. The fact that such duty encompassed numerous trips to attend matches throughout the Southeast frosted the cake. In the six months as OIC no one messed with me. My immediate boss, the assistant G-3, only visited me once, and since we were kicking ass in Army and civilian matches, I got a letter of commendation from the commanding officer of the XIII Airborne Corps, General York.

  I organized a sniper training program for both the North Carolina National Guard and sniper teams for the XVIII Airborne Corps, in case such a resource was required to deal with any out-of-control civil disturbances that might occur during the upcoming summer.

  TIME TO KICK MR. CHARLES’ BUTT . . .

  All good things must come to an end, and by now I was anxious to get to Nam. My arrival there was no different than the descriptions that have been in scores of memoirs . . . getting off the plane and getting hit with a straight left jab of humidity followed by a right cross of debilitating heat. . . . The grenade screens over the raggedy ass bus windows . . . the smells, sights, for me, of a baroque culture . . . military fumes from the vehicles along with the stench of the food, unwashed bodies and open sewers. No big deal. A couple of million-plus troops had done the same thing.

  It didn’t take long to get processed
and transported to my assigned unit, 2/18th Battalion, 3d Brigade, First Division, which was headquartered in a sprawling, dusty base located at Zion, about 20 clicks north of Saigon. Once again I landed on my feet, as the battalion I was assigned to had their Tactical Operations Center (TOC) in a huge brand-spanking-new water purification plant built with something like, as I remember, 60 million dollars funded by USAID to provide potable water to the inhabitants of Saigon. This project was typical of so many do-gooder projects in Nam and elsewhere, where the intent was admirable but the results a flat ass failure. Oh yes, the plant worked just fine, pumping out hundreds of thousands of gallons of water toward Saigon. Problem was the genius who put this project together failed to realize that all the pipes that carried the water into and throughout Saigon were ancient and decrepit, and therefore contaminated. And so was the water by the time it reached the end user.

  But our quarters were comparatively luxurious. Tile floors, bunk beds and air conditioning—most of the time. When I first reported in to the Battalion, the old man, or CO, Lt. Colonel Crow, assigned me as the S-4, in charge of logistics. This excited me about as much as a bowl full of hair-balls. The quartermaster/supply section was based at Zion. I slept in a bed of sweat till my body adjusted to the heat. I lost 10 lbs., down to 165 because of the heat. I ordered three tailored suits in Saigon, and within weeks after I got home and back to my normal weight, none of them fit. Well, at $35 apiece it was not a major financial disaster.

  5

  A-TEAM ADVENTURES: WHACKING MR. CHARLES AND ALMOST GETTING WHACKED MYSELF

  After about a month, the Battalion CO tagged me to take over as the S-2, staff intelligence officer. Dealing with the enemy, weather . and terrain rather than keeping track of beans and bullets was definitely a step upward. Our Battalion was one of several that had been given an area of operations that blocked the major avenues of approach for the NVA into Saigon after Tet.