15 Months in SOG
Authors: Thom Nicholson
We didn’t see or hear anything that seemed suspicious until we came to a wide stream, maybe a thousand yards from the little hill where the old fort was located. As the point squad started across, a single automatic weapon clattered a red stream of death at us. If the enemy gunner had been only a little more patient, he could have greased the whole bunch of us in the middle of the water. As it was, he killed one of the strikers and wounded another very slightly in the hand.
In an instant, nearly everyone on our side dropped to the ground and opened up. The VC over there must have been scared half to death, or shot to hell, or both; when we cautiously crossed the stream, the night remained quiet. By that time, the light from the star shells helped illuminate the ground in front of us, but the flickering light made every bush come alive, every tree seem a threatening, half-visible menace. Detailing a couple of men to carry the KIA, we moved as quickly as possible, using the trees and brush for cover, toward the hill. But it sounded as if the shooting had lost some of its previous intensity.…
A Presidio Press Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1999 by Thomas P. Nicholson
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Presidio Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Presidio Press and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-78818-4
v3.1
To my dearest wife, Sandra, without whose love, support, encouragement, and assistance, it would never have happened
To my son, Tim, now serving in the army, following in my footsteps, of whom I am very proud
To my old Marine buddy, Dan Guenther, who said I should do it in case someone might be interested
Most of all, to those brave men who we lost there, who will remain forever young in my memory
Map 1. Republic of Vietnam
Map 2. I Corps Detail
Welcome Back to the War
or
It’s a Dirty Job, but Somebody’s Gotta Do It
The air was sticky—humid and hot, just as I remembered—as I stepped off the big silver bird chartered from Pan Am. There was the same old familiar smell; rotted vegetation, sewage, and burned jet exhaust, all fighting for nauseous supremacy. “Hell,” I grumbled to myself, “what’d you expect? This is Vietnam, you ain’t been gone that long, trooper.”
My thoughts returned to the scene at the airport in St. Louis. My young wife, our two little ones in her arms, all sobbing as I climbed on the plane that was to carry me away from all I loved. I doubt if the boys understood what was going on, they were so young, but the tears being shed by their mother had both of the youngsters wailing away. The sight is etched in my memory forever, all three of my loved ones’ faces contorted with grief and streaked with tears. I thought my heart was going to break as well. I sat down next to a grandmotherly woman, who wisely looked away while I wiped the tears from my eyes and attempted to compose myself.
“Going off to Vietnam, son?” she finally asked. The polite question gave me a chance to talk, if I wanted to.
I didn’t. So I just nodded and turned my face to the window, staring at the white clouds floating beneath the plane. She never said another word to me the rest of the trip to San Francisco. Bless her kind heart.
After a time, as the miles between my family and me increased, the lump in my throat diminished enough to allow me to suppress the almost physical pain of leaving. I was to
spend the next fifteen months endeavoring to hold back the persistent nausea of separation. Any time I let it surface, the hurt was back, sharp and heart-wrenching as the day I left.
I inhaled again the distinctive odor of Vietnam. To this day, I can recall the smell; it has soaked into my memory like sewage on a sponge. I squinted in the harsh sunlight around the concrete apron of the massive air base at Cam Ranh Bay, Republic of South Vietnam. I was a young captain in the U.S. Army arriving for my second tour of duty. I was lean and mean, the product of a refresher course at the Jungle School in Panama, the Canal Zone, and anxious to find out what I would be doing the second time around. I had served the first tour as executive officer in a Special Forces A-team in the Central Highlands of South Vietnam. I had seen the elephant (been under enemy fire), as the old army saying went, and was ready to boss some men in combat, the most challenging assignment to which an army captain could aspire.
A continuous relay of F-4 Phantom fighter planes streaked off the hot concrete runway and into the harsh, blue sky, the jet engines’ roar drowning out any hope of conversation, their sooty, black exhaust drifting away with the slight breeze. The 230 men with me, and a single female soldier, shuffled toward a concrete-block building with a red sign over the door:
2023D PORT AUTHORITY, WELCOME TO SOUTH
VIETNAM
. Underneath a smaller sign read:
NEW ARRIVALS FOLLOW THE ARROWS TO CENTRAL PROCESSING
.
Sweating in the fierce sun, my group of new arrivals obeyed like mindless automatons and entered a large room at the corner of the building. An air force sergeant, his nose red from sun or booze or both, stood beside a long, wooden table, and, as soon as the door shut behind the last man, launched into a droning monologue about in-processing, how to conduct yourself, etc., etc. I don’t remember another word he said and doubt if he could have five minutes after he finished.
I glanced around at my fellow travelers, all innocent, new
fresh meat for the war. Just then, somewhere else within the building, two hundred plus lucky survivors were hearing their final out-briefing, probably given by another bored sergeant, before loading aboard the plane I’d just exited. They were about to depart for a long-awaited return to the real world, the land of the big PX, the good ole U.S.A. “Oh well,” I consoled myself, “only 450 days to go, and counting.”
I had decided to extend my tour an extra three months in country. That way, I could go directly to Fort Benning, Georgia, upon my return and enter the Infantry Officers Career Course (IOCC). If I got home too early, I might be sent elsewhere for a year of troop duty, and I wanted to get IOCC behind me before I was assigned to a permanent duty station. I hoped the extra three months would be safe and quiet. My wife threatened to kill me if I got greased away during my extension. Her tongue could be sharper than my Ranger knife. I figured I’d hear it in my grave if I made the mistake of dying in Vietnam.
Suddenly, the bored NCO’s voice cut through my musings. “All air force personnel to Room A, army to Room B, and navy-Marines to Room D. Any others to Room C. There, you will be picked up by your respective replacement battalions and taken to temporary billets while awaiting in-country assignment.”
I grabbed my duffel bag, stuffed to the brim with the essentials I needed, like socks, shorts, and a nifty Browning, 13-shot, 9mm pistol I was sneaking in country against regulations. I also had a custom-made hunting vest with extra pockets, my old jungle boots from the first tour, several sets of civvies for relaxing when away from the jungle, and a little ditty bag filled with toilet articles.
A couple of first-timers behind me were complaining to no one in particular that they already had orders assigning them to a unit.
“Don’t believe it,” I counseled, the weight of experience giving me authority to put in my two cents’ worth. “Army Command at Saigon can reassign you to anyplace you may be
needed, once you arrive in country. Your orders don’t mean squat.”
Inside Room B, a sweating sergeant first class (E-7) waited for our arrival, along with several pencil-pushing clerks from the replacement depot. We handed over our orders and were herded to army-green buses outside the door. At the repple depot, located at the far end of the runway, I wasted little time getting under a long, cool shower and into the cot assigned me, with its draped mosquito netting and clean sheets. If I ended up in the 4th Infantry Division, as my orders stated, I’d see little of either for a long time.
I reported to Officer Assignments early the next morning. To my delight, the personnel major in charge of infantry officers asked me if I wanted to go back to the 5th Special Forces Group. “They’ve had a few unforeseen casualties and are asking for SF-qualified officers.”
