Chapter 6 Hopelessness Reigns 120724 The month of
February was filled with more disjointed and bad memories. My unit
was still guarding that same road, where my battalion commander had
chewed me out icing the sweet cake of distain that I already felt for
him deep in my heart of hearts. That disdainful
cake, itself, was baked at that bunker complex in January, where
his glaring incompetence had needlessly gotten men killed. The Hill
Billy in me would eat on that cake for the next fifty years. While
guarding this road, I remember writing home to my mother. I remember
mentioning how senseless our missions seemed to be and how we returned
again and again to the same areas, to face the same endless
circumstances. As I sat writing this particular letter, I could hear an
approaching convoy. Suddenly, there was a large explosion directly
behind me. It happened just as an APC went by. I could feel the blast
and see pieces of metal fall to the ground around me. The APC had
obviously been blown apart by a large mine in the road, or maybe a
sapper with an RPG. I wasn't able to see anything because I was in thick
jungle which came within a few feet of the edge of the road. The Rome
plows had not cleared this section of road yet. Others in my unit who
were not on guard duty responded. I learned later that everyone in the
vehicle died. The vehicle, itself was destroyed. People soon cleared the
damaged vehicle off the road so traffic could get moving again, leaving
me to ponder one haunting thought. How useless had it been for our
leaders to post guards like me inside the wood line along this road,
where the enemy could still slip by us and attack convoys?
I remember another day when we were walking through open
countryside and since we were short on fresh drinking water, some of the
men were resorting to drinking rice patty water. When I and several
others noticed numerous coconut trees in the area, it was a no brainer
to start knocking the coconuts off those trees and drink the juice. It
was a lot more nourishing and a heck of a lot safer to drink than rice
patty water. Soon, however, Sergeant Rook interrupted us and made
everyone stop. He thought that the coconut trees might be booby trapped.
However, that was highly unlikely. The communists also got thirsty and
hungry, and they certainly did not want to kill their own comrades. We
all knew this, but it was senseless to argue with Sergeant Rook. He took
all feedback as a personal affront to his person. By now, everyone knew
his little rebukes were copied from his make-believe hero, Sergeant
Stryker in the movie, "Sands of Iwo Jima". Walker and I got into the
habit of just looking at each other and shaking our heads when Rook came
up with another one of his mindless edicts. Years later, I realize that
Sergeant Rook had not been given the leadership training he needed to
effectively communicate. As far as I know, there was no such training
available until years later when American military leaders like Lt.
General Lawson Magruder took the initiative to change that. During the
entire Vietnam War, for the most part, it was truly the blind leading
the blind.
Another time, the idea of sleeping in a hammock, rather than the
hard ground really caught on fast. I bought one from a civilian vendor
but only used it a couple times. It didn’t take long for me to realize
on my own that it wasn’t safe to sleep above the ground. Random firing
into our perimeter was a common occurrence. If one was sleeping in a
hammock then his chances of being hit were greatly increased. That
danger should have been recognized much more quickly than it was. I
wonder how many soldiers had to die before it was recognized as being
dangerous. Not only allowing but encouraging feedback can catch
situations like that much faster and save lives. Yet, while I was in
Vietnam, I never had one of my immediate superiors ask for my input on
anything. I also now know that wasn’t their fault. It was the Army’s
fault for not teaching them the rudiments of good leadership.
One day we marched single file deeper into the area just west of
the northern most tip of the Iron Triangle. Operation Cedar Falls had
been over for at least two weeks, or maybe more. We were now in a free
kill zone which simply meant we could shoot anyone we saw. There were no
civilians to be seen anywhere. After studying old maps, I believe that
we were near the Hobo Woods. We were on the western side of the Saigon
River across from some abandoned rice fields. The northern edge of those
rice fields were near the destroyed village of Ben Suc. However, my unit
never saw the village and never realized that it had even been
evacuated, and then destroyed. I am sure a few officers may have known
exactly what happened but the men in my unit had no idea. The entire
population in that area had been relocated further south on the Saigon
River. While we acted as a blocking force to protect Saigon, five other
battalions of the First Infantry Division and the 25th Infantry Division
were actually involved in sealing off the village and helping with the
removal of civilians. When
Operation Cedar Falls ended January 26, 1967, 6,000 residents of Ben Suc
had been removed with their belongings from the area. They were
relocated about 20 miles further south to a refugee center near the town
of Phu Cuong. Many of these people were rice farmers, which begs the
following question. What were they supposed to do now? Ben Suc, the
largest hamlet in the area, was burned to the ground and the enemy
tunnel complex located underneath was destroyed by dropping the biggest
bombs we had on top of it. Common sense compels me to ask another
question. What would be a good way to turn 6,000 folks into lifetime
enemies? Wouldn’t at least one way be to forcibly remove them from the
only home they had ever known and then destroy that home? Wouldn't
another way be to prevent them from earning a living through the only
employment they had ever known? Then, just to be sure that they would
hate you forever, why not force them to live solely on handouts from the
government?
Some military reports bragged about transporting the hamlet's
water buffalo to the new refugee center. Yeah, you heard me right! The
U.S. Army loaded up their water buffaloes and shipped them out to the
new refugee center. Now what in the world were the farmers of Ben Suc
supposed to do with their water buffaloes now that they had no land to
farm? And how were they going to feed them? For those readers who may
not know, water buffalo were the Vietnamese "tractor" used to work the
land.
Common sense cannot help but tell anyone who has half a brain
that these 6,000 people would now have nothing but time on their hands
to think about what had just happened to them. Isn’t it conceivable that
many of those 6,000 folks might be mad enough to desire to get even with
the people who had done this to them? I feel very fortunate that God
shielded me and the other men in my battalion from becoming directly
involved in Operation Cedar Falls. By the way, our First Division
Commander, Major General DePuy wanted to skip this operation,
altogether, and encircle the enemy's base camps further north. That
would have been a much more logical move, providing greater opportunity
to capture the entire COSVN (Central Office South Vietnam) leadership.
However, that bold initiative was overruled by DePuy’s boss but the
choice to overrule it was ultimately Westmoreland’s.
The COSVN was a very small cadre of top Communist leaders
operating at this time in the Iron Triangle area south of Ben Suc. They
used the many tunnel complexes as their hideouts and were the brains
behind the communist political machine. They planned and coordinated the
takeover, not just of Saigon, but all of South Vietnam. They would move
from complex to complex in the area to avoid capture. If this very small
number of top Communist officials could have been caught or killed that
would have put a big dent in the communist operations. The South
Vietnamese government also presented a problem. It was extremely corrupt
and should have been replaced with a provisional government as was done
in Germany and Japan after World War II. Operation Cedar Falls was a
joint operation with the South Vietnamese, so the communist spies knew
all about it before we did. That gave the COSVN plenty of time to
skedaddle further north to their other sanctuaries in War Zone C and D.
To all schooled in world affairs, it became apparent that we
Americans would be leaving Vietnam at some point. Why? Because it was
obvious that we weren't in it to win it. If we had really cared that
much about winning, we would have taken the time to identify our real
adversaries, which was the communist political machine and to a lesser
degree a corrupt South Vietnamese government. One must identify one's
adversary before a plan can be formulated to create the necessary steps
to dismantle that adversary. An adversary may not always be just the
army arrayed against one’s own army in the field. By the sixties,
however, common sense was becoming a rare commodity indeed in our
country. America was straying far her moorings of enlightened thinking
grounded in our Judeo-Christian principles. Our leaders became
sidetracked fighting a totally industrial war and that’s understandable
because it temporarily pumped up our domestic economy and created more
jobs. You see, nothing in life is free. Someone somewhere has to pay the
price. To think that America could expend the resources to fight the
Vietnam War by sticking to truly altruistic ideals is to be very naive.
Operations, like Cedar Falls evolved into big battle campaigns a little
later in the year, which boosted the American economy tremendously. It
also gave a badly needed shot in the arm to our industrial military
complex which was in the middle of another very costly war, known as The
Cold War. Unfortunately, the average South Vietnamese family became the
victim no matter which direction they turned.
Now, fast forwarding, it was probably more than a month since
Operation Cedar Falls had ended and on this particular day our unit was
still combing the general area West of the Iron Triangle, looking for
any enemy units which could have been displaced and hiding in places
like the Hobo Woods. I didn't realize it yet, but I would soon be
getting a grunt's eye view of an enormous enemy tunnel complex.
These tunnels were an interesting phenomenon. We Americans had
very little understanding of their importance. They weren't just holes
in the ground. They were an extension of the shadow government, itself,
which controlled the South Vietnamese people. We gassed them. We blew
them up. We sent tunnel rats down into them, to investigate, but we did
not understand them. You see, these tunnels were home to the warlocks
which came out at night to terrorize the South Vietnamese people. I now
realize that those warlocks, hiding away beneath the earth, were the
reason for the strained smiles on people's faces each time we questioned
them at a check point. We simply didn't understand. We were very much
self-absorbed and focused only on our high-tech tools of war, as the way
to win. We saw these deep, dark, hand-dug tunnels, as nothing but a
nuisance. Oh, but they were much, much more.
The Communist had been digging and expanding these tunnels for
years. There were actually thousands of miles of them and enough
hollowed out chambers below the ground to provide cover, housing,
storage, and offices to support the logistics requirements for large
well organized communist operations in the South. They provided
storerooms for rice, storerooms for weapons, hospital facilities and
even weapons manufacturing facilities. These tunnels had been
continually expanded since the 1950’s when the Viet Minh were fighting
the French. The civilian youth in the area were made to work on their
expansion and upkeep. They were required to meet a digging quota of so
many feet a day by the Communist shadow government. Civilian youth of
villages like Ben Suc and Cu Chi were also made to attend political
indoctrination classes in the evenings. Today some of those same tunnels
around Chu Chi have been turned into tourist attractions.
One day, instead of pulling road guard duty, we patrolled in
force through an area where there were only small trees and a lot of
thick dense bamboo and other smaller jungle growth. An armored unit was
with us. They followed as we cleared the woods in front of them. I
believe it was elements of the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. This was
slow hot work. Although I had started walking point a couple times for
my squad, I was not walking point today. My squad was in the middle of
the formation, which made it a little easier and a lot less dangerous.
Around noon, we were glad when we stopped and set up a perimeter in an
area that was covered with small saplings but no large trees. Shortly
after we stopped, word came down that we were getting a hot meal flown
out which was really good news. We had been eating only C-rations for
several days.
Very soon, the sound of a helicopter could be heard descending
into a clearing somewhere nearby. Everyone stopped what they were doing
and immediately perked up. A grunt could fall asleep almost anywhere
during a five-minute break, but the sound of those beating chopper
blades made sleepy eyes open wide. A couple guys who had been lying on
their backs snoring immediately jumped to their feet. Why? Because the
arrival of that chopper meant that a hot meal was on its way. However, I
never flinched. I just kept leaning back on my ruck sack steadily
observing the other members of my squad. That experience at the bunkers
had really made me realize that I needed to take a closer look at
everything and everyone. Gone was my desire to accept and be accepted in
return. Out of this bunch, who could I really count on in a pinch? I now
realized that's what should concern me, and not who liked who.
When I considered who I could trust, Walker was the only name
which came to mind.
My M-14 rifle was cradled in my right arm with the butt touching
the ground between my legs and the end of the barrel pointing over my
right shoulder. For brief stops while on the march I always sat on my
steel pot, but not today. Today, had been a long hot walk. Now, I was
willing to chance a sting or two from black ants to become more
comfortable. I had spread the lower part of my body flat on the ground,
with the upper part of my body propped up by my rack sack. It was a very
comfortable position, and I could have slept like this all night. After
the bunker debacle, I had added an M-72 rocket launcher to my wares. I
tied it outside and crossways to the lower part of my ruck sack. A
brand-new poncho and new poncho liner were the bulkiest items stored
inside that ruck sack. I had acquired them just before we started on
this present outing. Later, during the rainy season, I would add an air
mattress to the items stored inside. Extra hand grenades were also a
must.
As I rested, our squad radio occasionally crackled and popped. I
feared ever having to talk on that thing. My perfectionist mindset ran
wild imagining the humiliation which would come, as a result of the
stuttering and stammering which I would no doubt do if I ever had to use
one. Furthermore, the gigantic inferiority complex which I carried
around could never handle any criticism which was sure to come from the
other end of my transmissions. No sir, I didn't need that olive drab box
to make me feel any worse about myself than I already felt. I avoided
being near those contraptions every chance I got.
Chow was here but I had absolutely no intention of heading for
the chow line. Instead, I would wait so I could be one of the last ones
in line. That would give me a much better chance of getting the servers
to give me double portions. What was left over would have to be thrown
out anyway. It was a great strategy and one that had often worked.
However, the ornithologist in Sargent Rook had evidently been keeping a
close watch on "rare birds' like me. “Wade”, he yelled, “Go get in
line”! Although there were other squad members milling around near me,
this was clearly a shot over my bow and my bow alone. There was no, “Hey
guys, go get in line”. There was simply just one sharp blast aimed
directly at me. I responded by putting on the best pretense that I could
muster. My reply sounded good to me, and I delivered it in a cool calm
voice. I thought that sounded good too. I explained how I didn’t mind
holding down our position while the rest of the squad went to eat. To
me, this reply rang of selfless sacrifice. How could Sergeant Rook ever
know that it was also disingenuous? That reply should have made him come
down off his high horse, but it didn't. “Wade”, he yelled, “I am not
telling you again. Go get in line!” He sounded really angry this time.
It was pretty embarrassing. After all, I wasn't a recruit. I was a grown
man. But what could I do? There was nothing left to do, but roll off my
ruck sack, stand up with my M-14 rifle clutched in my right hand, and
start walking in the direction of the chow line. At the same time, I
felt my temper rise and then subside as I was able to remind myself of
two things. Number one was that one more day of my one-year prison
sentence was almost over. Secondly, I reminded myself that Sergeant Rook
was truly a Neanderthal, who really didn’t know any better.
When I arrived at the end of the chow line the insulated food
canisters had been placed on the tracks of a parked tank and people were
helping themselves. This was great! I could help myself to double
portions without having to ask. That was already taking away some of the
agitation caused by Sergeant Rook’s rude behavior. It only took a couple
minutes to get my food and head back into my squad area to continue my
sojourn with good old Sargent Rook.
As I turned to retrace my steps, I looked over my shoulder at the
tank gun. It was pointed down what looked to be a recently cleared path
which was a little wider than the tank itself. I instinctively glanced
down the length of that cleared path for any signs of movement. Checking
out my surroundings was just something that my dad had taught me to
always do.
I passed Winstead on the way back to my position. We grunted at
each other. He was in another platoon, but he would have definitely been
the second man on my list of trusted Compadres if he had only been in my
platoon. Dennis Winstead had also grown up with a love of hunting wild
game back in Virginia. He was a great shot with a rifle and was in great
physical condition. He and I had breezed through basic training and as I
said before we were the only two people in our training platoon to be
picked to become 11B10 riflemen. His situational awareness was second to
none and in the next few minutes he would prove that what I am saying
was true.
This would be the only meal that I would eat today and actually
the hot meals we got in the field were excellent. When I returned to my
position, I squatted down beside my ruck sack. Then, I carefully laid my
rifle across it to keep the barrel out of the dirt. Next, I pulled off
my steel helmet and laid it upside down beside the ruck sack. I sat down
on that and began eating. I used the helmet as a seat this time because
I wanted to make absolutely sure that I wouldn’t be interrupted by a
stinging black ant. If that happened, it could cause me to spill my food
all over the ground. After eating most of my meal I started feeling
pretty good again. I felt even better when I remembered that my squad
had no ambush patrol tonight. I grabbed my entrenching tool and looked
for the softest spot of ground to dig a shallow hole so I could bury my
paper plate and my scraps of food. Several other guys saw what I was
doing and robotically walked over and dropped their trash in the hole
which I had just dug. This could very well be the makings of one more
very hot, tiring, and boring day. The hot meal was definitely the
highlight but boring was good too. I was finally learning how to
appreciate a day like this. If Rook would transfer to another job, I was
sure I could appreciate my life as a grunt even more.
In the meantime, Winstead was going through the chow line at the
tank. About the same time that I was burying my trash, Dennis had worked
his way through that line and was standing at the front right edge of
the tank. I am sure his mouth was watering and just as sure that he
couldn’t wait to get back to his position inside the wood line so he
could chow down. However, that wasn’t to be. Winstead wouldn't go
hungry, but he would be eating C-Rations, instead of the hot meal he was
holding in his hand.
While the other guys in the line behind Dennis were intently
focused on scooping food onto their plates, Dennis noticed something.
Like me, he had been conditioned from childhood to continually check his
six. He now noticed something in his peripheral vision toward that six.
Any skilled hunter will tell you that he or she instinctively uses their
peripheral vision to detect movement in a radius as far out and as far
around as possible. This was an ingrained habit with Winstead. He now
detected movement about a hundred meters or so down the cleared path to
the front of the big tank's gun.
At this same time, I was squatting down beside my ruck sack and
after burying my trash, another man in my platoon, named Porky Morton
was about to get the fright of his life. He was sitting in his position
with the rest of his squad around him and no more than thirty meters
away from me. While blissfully chowing down on his hot meal, he saw two
arms rise out of the ground and each arm flung two little black objects
toward him. Porky’s plate of food went flying as he jumped to his feet
and turned to run. Everyone else who saw it did the same. The black
objects were Chicom grenades and the blast from one lifted Porky off his
feet and propelled him forward causing him to land flat on his face. One
piece of shrapnel went through Porky’s ample right buttocks. Other than
that, he was okay. The Explosion was heard by everyone. People like me
who were close by hit the dirt.
In the meantime, just before that first grenade exploded,
Winstead was taking action. The movement he saw was definitely a man in
black pajamas. Dennis never hesitated. In one fluid motion, he stepped
clear of the tank, dropped to one knee and at the same time raised his
rifle to his shoulder. The paper plate of food went flying, landing
upside down in the dirt beside him. That didn’t matter because the
business at hand had become much more important. He now realized that he
was looking at a Cong running toward the tank with a grenade in each
hand. The Cong also had an M-1 carbine slung over his back. Many Cong
carried these at this time instead of the AKs which became more
prevalent later in the year. The kneeling Dennis Winstead now had the
butt of his rifle pressed firmly against his right shoulder with his
left hand holding the stock while his left elbow rested solidly just
forward of his left knee cap. An appreciation of the quick skill
involved in Dennis’s reaction to the threat could have been lost on a
casual observer but in reality, it had taken years to perfect. What may
have seemed natural was really the practiced craft of handling a rifle
since childhood. Others around him were much slower to react and were
somewhat confused at first. Several wondered why he had thrown his plate
of food in the air. They had not yet seen the Cong charging the tank.
Would the Cong have made it to the tank if Winstead had not been there?
I can’t answer that question. I can say that it was an easy shot for
Winstead especially since the man was running straight toward him. He
carried an M-14 that could either shoot one shot at a time or with flip
of a small lever it could fire fully automatic. In this case, one shot
at a time was better. Breathing out and holding his breath after quickly
lining up the front and back sights on the mid-section of the Cong, he
squeezed the trigger. The man instantly dropped dead in full stride,
sliding a little ways across the ground as the thirty-caliber full metal
jacket bullet passed through his chest and hit the hard laterite ground
behind him causing a little spark. This threat was now eliminated but it
was not over, not by a long shot. The tank crew scurried up the side of
the tank and into the hatches to assume their battle positions. Food
canisters went flying off the right track of the armored beast as it
lurched forward a couple feet. One container bounced by Winstead’s head
just as he was rising to his feet.
For the next thirty minutes or so there was sporadic gun fire
throughout the battalion area punctuated every now and again by
exploding grenades, as Cong popped out of their spider holes to throw
hand grenades in various locations within our perimeter. It soon became
very apparent that we had accidently established our entire battalion’s
position directly on top of a massive tunnel complex which had
protective one man spider holes running throughout the area. Later, it
would become a well-known fact that tunnels in this area were sometimes
three stories deep and served as command control and planning centers
for all COSVN activities in the region north of Saigon. These nerve
centers kept intelligence records, produced printed propaganda materials
for indoctrinating the South Vietnamese and were responsible for the
coordinated mortar attacks on Saigon which welcomed me to the country as
well as the sapper attack which wiped out our mechanized recon patrol on
January 9th.
It was a chaotic scene for a few minutes. I stayed put, laid low
and waited, as did the rest of the guys in my squad. The enemy had
obviously gotten nervous when we accidently camped for lunch on top of
his home. Whoever was in charge of the Cong had then hastily put
together this plan of attack, hoping to cause confusion among our ranks,
and it seemed to be working. However, I am not sure that it was the best
plan on their part. It was highly unlikely that we would have discovered
this tunnel complex if the people hiding inside it had just laid low and
waited for us to move on. There were no raised bunkers or other obvious
signs anywhere to give their location away.
It soon became apparent that there was no standard operating
procedure (SOP) for dealing with a situation like this. So, Denton was
left to address the problem in whatever way he thought best. Coming up
with solid tactical ideas on the spot was not his strong suit. He was in
good company because it seems his superiors didn’t have a clue either.
Things became muddled in a hurry. I and a few other individuals
from different squads were the lucky winners chosen to come on down and
play the game of Muddle Mania. As I have already mentioned, Lt. Col.
Denton was a very brave person when it came to standing his ground in
extremely life-threatening situations. He had already proven that in
Korea. But he had also proven something else at those bunkers in
January. He had proven that he had absolutely no aptitude for the job.
Whether one is at the helm of a fortune five hundred company, a
mom-and-pop operation, or a combat battalion, that person must possess
an aptitude for the job.
Obviously, we needed to move, so Denton ordered us to withdraw.
Everyone around me started rounding up their gear and prepared to move
out, looking suspiciously at the jungle floor around them as they did
so. However, just as had happened before at those enemy bunkers, the fog
of war enveloped our illustrious leader’s mind. Actually, I have no idea
who came up with the next move, whether that was Denton or someone
higher up in Brigade, but the idea sucked.
After assembling together with the rest of my platoon, Sergeant
Rook walked up to me with a stony look on his face. He was returning
from a huddle with our platoon leader, whoever that was. Rook now
singled me out for the second time in one day. The first time turned out
to be a good call. This time it seemed he had a much more clandestine
reason for choosing me and me only. I will never know what that reason
was, but it wasn’t good. I do know one thing. Rook did not pick me
because he thought I was the best man for the job. He picked me because
there was some kind of deep-rooted hatred in his heart for people like
me.
Unable to look me in the eyes, Rook uttered the last words that
he would ever say to me. “Wade report to the commander of those tanks
over there”, he pointed. As I remember the tanks were setting pretty
much in the same place where they had been setting when the shooting
started. The rest of my fellow squad members disappeared with the
battalion. Now, I found myself standing in the midst of a little group
of no more than 20 11B10 riflemen like me who were total strangers to me
as well as each other. They had also been singled out. We were told by a
buck sergeant, whom we had never seen before, to line up in a single
line about a 100 meters wide and wait until the tanks ran over and
mashed down the jungle growth, in an area about the size of a football
field. So, that is exactly what we did. It was an easy job for the tank
and APC crews because they were heavy enough to smash down the small
trees and bamboo groves which consisted of nothing larger than 3- or
4-inch stuff. It was also a relatively safe job for them because they
had those deadly 50 caliber machine guns at the ready. However, what
they had planned for us afterward was anything but safe.
After the foliage had been flattened, we were told to spread out in a
single line perhaps 60 or 70 meters long. The armor would then follow
behind us. As we started to slowly move forward, I had plenty of time to
think. This was the second time under Denton that I had been separated
from my squad while on an operation. The first time was while pulling
road guard duty, which I have already mentioned. No combat soldier likes
to be singled out to work with complete strangers. This is a given. I
was beginning to trust the members of my squad in the field to respond
in predictable ways. I cannot stress how important predictability was to
a grunt. I never got to know any of them personally, but I did know them
well enough to know what I could expect from them. I had never been a
part of any organized group of any kind. I was the consummate loner. My
combat squad was really my only experience working with others on a real
job. I had other jobs, but for the most part I worked alone in those
jobs. Basic training was temporary. It wasn’t designed to make anyone
feel a part of anything. Against all reason, my squad had become
important to me since I was not going to be allowed to go home. Now, I
was being thrust into a very dangerous situation with complete
strangers. I felt like I was the only guy in the entire country who was
going to war with the enemy. Any good feelings that I was starting to
develop were gone in an instant. As I stood there listening to diesel
engines and the crunching of jungle foliage under the tracks of these
armored vehicles, a dark hopeless feeling began to flood over me. I had
no idea what the guy on my left or right was going to do. If we ran into
trouble, he had no idea what I would do. Would he hesitate too long
pulling the trigger? Would he become trigger happy and shoot me if a
Cong got between me and him? These were the kinds of questions running
through my head.
The dehumanizing way we were being commanded to perform this
relatively small action was just a symptom of much bigger problems, but
I had no way of knowing that. It’s a good thing I didn’t know, or I
would have lost my mind. How could someone come up with orders to
assemble strangers from the far-flung corners of the battalion, who had
never worked together? Then, to top it off, put us under the command of
a mechanized unit commander? That was nuts. It's was very important to
know that the other guy had your back. The mechanized unit commander was
using a megaphone. The entire thing seemed surreal to me.
Nevertheless, it was time to put one foot in front of the other
and start concentrating on my surroundings. Moving forward online line
wasn’t easy. We had to climb over and under a tangled mess of bamboo as
well as other small trees and bushes which had been squashed by the big
tanks and APCs. As we moved forward, I heard a burst of gunfire coming
from the right end of the line. I knew better than to turn my head to
take a closer look and risk the danger of not seeing what might pop up
in front of me. So, I just concentrated on scanning an area from the man
on my left to the man on my right and about ten yards out. I could hear
one of the armored vehicles to my rear take off in the direction of the
gunfire. I used my peripheral vision to stay lined up with guys on my
right and left. We slowly moved forward. I had gone maybe fifty yards
when it happened. A dark human form popped out of a patch of flat ground
about ten yards in front of the guy to my left. It was a Cong. He slung
two grenades upward into the air. They landed between that guy and me.
While the grenades were still in the air and half of the Cong’s body was
still exposed, the guy to my left instinctively let loose with a
three-round burst from his M-16. I barely had time to dive face down on
my belly to minimize the effects of the grenade blasts. As I was falling
forward, I saw one of the bullets from the M-16 strike the Cong in the
face. I saw a little piece of something flying from the back of his
head. He fell backward into the hole. In those days we weren’t taught to
continually shoulder our weapons while investigating a threat. This
soldier had shot from the hip. I am sure that it was purely coincidence
that he hit the Cong with a bullet to the head.
Now, the tank behind us saw the action and started moving toward
the uncovered spider hole. When the driver got within about 10 yards the
tank commander traversed the big gun downward and fired into the mouth
of the hole at point blank range. I have always thought that this was a
really dumb move. I do remember that there was no explosion as the shell
hit the top of the ground close to the entrance of the spider hole. The
impact sent red laterite dirt flying in all directions. The tank then
spun around again and again tearing up the ground where the spider-hole
entrance was located and covered up everything so that it was impossible
to tell where the entrance had been. “Oh yeah, that'll show them", I
thought to myself. I also thought how ridiculous my situation had become
getting caught up in situations like this where stupid seemed to rule
the day wherever we went.
Shortly after this incident happened, our single line advance
suddenly halted, although I heard no orders from anyone to do so, I
followed along and stood as still as a rock.. The grunts from both ends
of the line started walking toward the tank, which had now come to a
standstill about ten yards to my right. Several APCs then positioned
themselves around the tank and we were given orders to get aboard. After
everyone was aboard and sitting on top of the APCs, away we went. We
traveled down a dirt road. No one said a word while we were being
transported to our destination. From the leader of this little band of
misfits, to the lowest ranking soldier, the feeling was the same. It was
an anticlimactic moment with the general feeling being that we had
accomplished nothing. The blank matter-of-fact stares on our faces, as
our bodies rocked back and forth on the APCs, said it all.
As we rode, those sweaty bodies accumulated more and more smears
and smells of red earth on what use to be olive drab uniforms. We
resembled a picture not unlike that of a bunch of earthy convicts, who
were riding their farm equipment back from a day of toiling to make
little rocks out of big rocks. At least our sentence would be reduced by
one more day if we were not blown up on the way to our cells for the
night.
The Communist shadow government in the South would soon return to
use these same tunnels and others just like them. They had a three-prong
strategy for taking control of South Vietnam. One was by military force.
One was the operation of a shadow government through political
initiatives, including every type of atrocity imaginable. The third was
educational indoctrination of the youth. By the way, people with the
same goals as the communist in South Vietnam are working hard to conquer
America today. They are becoming much more sophisticated in their
techniques.
We grunts had no idea what became of those tunnels. I couldn't
help but ask myself why our lives had been put at risk for a bunch of
tunnels that we were now going to just abandon without any further ado?
We grunts had no idea what the next logical step would be, but it wasn’t
very hard for even the brain of a naive nineteen old like me to
understand that there were still enemy soldiers hiding in this massive
complex of tunnels. Were we now just driving off and leaving them to
their own devices? Years later I learned that the Central Office South
Vietnam (COSVN) high command used tunnels just like these as their
command headquarters to make a final push into Saigon. I cannot help but
wonder whether those were the same tunnels.
I remember being driven through the gates of a compound where we
were reunited with our individual platoons and squads after being
ordered to stay at the tunnels. I believe the name of our destination
was a place named Phu Loi. The compound where the mechanized unit
dropped us off was completely walled in by at least twelve-foot-high
buildings on all sides. It looked a little like modern day parking
garage.
The growing uneasiness which I had been experiencing started to
lift even before I learned of some welcome surprises. The first
uplifting surprise hit me square in the face soon after jumping off that
idling clickety-clack APC, which I had rode in on. Sergeant Rook was
gone for good. Alleluia! A couple new guys had joined my squad too. I
never found out what happened to Rook but in that moment, “Who cared”?
In his place was a five foot nine, sandy-haired, blue-eyed E-6 with a
pleasant smile on his face. His name was Sergeant Bartee, and he was
from Roanoke Virginia. Roanoke was just a few miles down the road from
my Grandfather's farm. Our new squad leader, Sergeant Bartee, unlike
Sergeant Rook, had not come from another combat unit. He was as fresh as
a daisy and new to combat altogether. This fact instantly elevated us to
old guy status and a certain built-in respect with him. We would soon
learn also that Bartee just naturally had a much easier going way about
him. I instantly liked him, and I never liked that other guy. What was
his name? It had turned into a good day Afterall. There was also a hot
meal waiting on us prepared by Tiny, himself. Make no mistake, our cooks
were highly respected by us grunts in the 1/18th Infantry Battalion.
There were showers and clean clothes to boot so let the good times roll.
Almost
instantly after meeting the new guys, the mood of the entire squad
changed. With Rook gone, Walker and I, simply by virtue of being the
oldest guys, were now in a position to set the stride of our squad with
number one priority to see that we all made it out alive. Respect for
one another was also very important. We also had a new platoon leader.
He was a West Point graduate. He had a very uplifting manner about him,
more so than any officer I had come in contact with thus far. He
actually talked to us like we were human beings. I do not know how he
handled combat, because he was only with us two weeks before taking over
our unit's recon platoon. However, I can remember him being instantly
liked by almost the entire platoon, including our sergeants. The
demeanors of our NCOs changed remarkably while he was with us. They
displayed a much-improved disposition. This was evident in the way they
passed down routine orders. For the first time the new Lieutenant
addressed the entire platoon with a very upbeat pep talk. My
nineteen-year-old mind was feeling the joy. Everyone else in the squad
was feeling good too. To top things off, another very friendly older
draftee named Bill Milliron from Pennsylvania was among the new
recruits. He was twenty-six and way ahead of the rest of us
nineteen-year-olds in his ability to get his way. I would soon learn
that the wheels were always turning in Bill’s head even when he was
knapping. I instantly liked him. So did everyone else. It really was
quite amazing how morale in the unit had turned on a dime.
Not only was the food welcomed at this place but so was the
showers. They were rigged under some hastily installed water tanks made
from bomb shells. We also got sundry supplies and letters and packages
from home. I got an applesauce cake from my mother. The next operation,
Operation Junction City, would last from February 22nd until May 14th so
the showers and clothes would have to last us almost three months.
Junction City would go down in history as the largest ground operation
of the war. The Communist spies in Saigon already knew a lot about it
before it ever got off the ground. For now, however, clean clothes, hot
meals and no perimeter guard was as good as it would get for my squad as
well as the entire battalion for the rest of the year.
During this down time, it didn’t take very long at all for
Sergeant Bartee and Bill Milliron to buddy up to one another. They had
three things in common which helped speed up that bonding process. They
were both about the same age. They both loved alcohol, and they also
loved pot. Because they had these three things in common I suppose it
was only natural for Bartee and Milliron to hit it off right away.
However, their friendliness with each other was extended to the rest of
the squad too. It was a good thing all the way around. Another one of
the new guys, from Kentucky, was Glen Bowman. He was quiet and stuck
close to me at first but after a couple days he started really warming
up to the gregarious Milliron. So did everyone else in the squad,
including me. Glen was my age. He was every bit as withdrawn as me, but
with one exception. When the affable Milliron would say something
pleasant about home, Glen would break out in an easy-going smile. Now, a
smile makes all the difference in the world, but it would take years for
me to realize that. You see, I never smiled. It wasn’t because I didn’t
feel like smiling sometimes. In my case, not smiling had a lot to do
with having extremely crooked teeth. I was very ashamed of the way they
made me look when I did smile. Little did I know that not smiling
sometimes made people feel uneasy around me. Smiles are important and
can have a powerful effect on others. Not smiling can also have a
powerful effect, just not the kind most of us would like.
For Glen and me there seemed to be nothing to do while staying in
this place but eat and sleep. Bill and Bartee were more adventurous. On
the second day they disappeared from the squad area for quite a while.
When they returned, they had goofy smiles on their faces which I can see
in my mind’s eye even today. Bill walked over to where I was sitting and
laid down in the dirt beside me and then rolled over on his back. During
our time together this would become his signature move after returning
from each of his little forays into sin. He seemed especially drawn to
me for some reason. Most guys his age projected a critical attitude
toward guys my age, expecting them to forever be proving themselves, but
that aggravating characteristic was missing with Bill. The entire time
that I was with him in the squad, he always had a calm easy-going
demeanor around everyone. Although he would become known as the old man
to the rest of us, he never let his more mature mind come between him
and the rest of the squad. Many times, in these relationships, the older
guy will use their greater degree of life experience to try to control
younger guys. Bill didn't do that unless you count winning at poker. He
did seem to win a lot. Yes, everyone liked Bill, including Bartee.
Because I liked him, it was somewhat enjoyable for me to listen to him.
He often rambled on about little or nothing. On this first occasion,
while Bill laid on his back beside me, rambling on, Bartee stood beside
us looking somewhat zombified. He had that same goofy look that Bill had
on his face. Then, without saying a word, he turned and walked toward
his RTO leaving Bill lying beside me. Bowman was sitting on my other
side taking it all in. I had been around drunks before, but this was
different. Later Bill explained to me what whacky tobacco was. He may
have shown me his supply at some point.
I can’t remember. Bill, I believe, was the first person ever to
roll one in front of me. I wonder now if he realized how bad I
considered that habit to be. I saw it as a human weakness, not for any
moral reason, but from the perspective of a perfectionist, who wanted
nothing to do with something which would weaken my body or impair my
judgment. I thought it very strange that many of these men were willing
to do harm to their bodies, by getting drunk and high on pot. I never
smoked a single cigarette much less pot. However, in a crazy way it did
raise my self-esteem just a notch when I was around people like Milliron
who did smoke and drink and seemed to have a devil may care attitude.
Why? Because my self-loathing was a horrible affliction which actually
was soothed when I was in the presence of those who seemed to have more
human flaws than me.
While still at this compound, The phrase, "Hurry up and wait" was
mentioned many times by most of us grunts. We did a lot of that in
Vietnam. Looking back now I realize that while we waited, big wheels
were being put into motion at division headquarters. However, we were
just the tread on the tires. When things were put in gear, we would hit
the ground running but as treads on a tire, we would only get a "tread's
eye view" of the upcoming operation. We were the very embodiment of the
well-worn phrase, "where the rubber meets the road". From that vantage
point, however, we never got to see the bigger picture. To gain insight
into the bigger picture I would have to wait almost a half century for
something called the internet to be invented.
However, what many of us grunts were able to see, all too
clearly, was how little our leadership was willing to use common sense,
when implementing tactical maneuvers against the enemy. Actually, the
way we were forced to do stupid things over and over was incredible. The
incompetence defied all logical thinking. Little did I know that at this
time there was a young high school student who would later pour over
some of the same after-action reports which I am reading now. He would
recognize many of the mistakes made. He would later correct those
mistakes when he got the chance. That young man's name was David
Petraeus, and he was the man who would turn the insurgency during the
Iraq War on its head.
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