15 Months in SOG (14 page)

Only once did anything happen on my shift in the sky that I remember thirty years later. One afternoon, just before we were due to be relieved, I got a call from a CIA operative deep in northern Laos on a recon mission with some local Laotian soldiers. Contrary to what was said by the politicians, we were using Laotians against the NVA in a big way. The CIA advised them, using old SF retirees, or even men assigned to temporary duty with the agency. It was bad duty, since everything was secret, a backdoor operation, not out in the open like in Vietnam. The talk among us SF types was that if you got deep in the shit, the CIA would just write you off then recruit another fool to take your place.

This particular CIA officer had just gone into his RON for the night when he came on the air, talking real soft. “Prairie Fire control, this is Eagle Three-three. Can you hear me? Over.”

“Eagle Three-three, this is Sneaky on Prairie Fire Control. I hear you. Over.”

“This is Eagle Three-three. A battalion of NVA are stopping almost on top of me.” He gave me the coordinates, which I logged in the activity book. “They’re all over the place. I’m shutting down for the night. Don’t call me until I check in tomorrow morning.”

“This is Sneaky. Understand. You’re going on radio silence until daylight. Do you want an air strike on your position?”

“Neg, Sneaky. It would grease me with them. I’ll follow ’em tomorrow and give you coordinates for an air strike when I can. I’m shutting down now. They’re getting too close to talk anymore. Eagle Three-three out.”

I passed on the information to my relief at the end of my shift and crossed my fingers for the brave American stuck in the middle of all those bad guys. For the next two days, we called for Eagle, but static-laced silence was the only reply. Another nameless hero added to the roster of the dead. If I try real hard, I can still hear his whisper in my ears. “Eagle Three-three calling Prairie Fire. Over.”

It turned out to be a great two weeks, and I hated to leave, but all good things do come to an end. Almost before I knew it, I was saying good-bye to Kim, and her soft, brown eyes were overflowing. At the gate leading to my plane, I held her while she softly whispered her farewell, then I kissed her for the last time. I turned away, an ache in my heart. My eyes were misting over, and I nearly bumped into some new airmen arriving on the shuttle I was to leave on.

I turned for one last wave, but Kim didn’t see me. She was giggling and talking to one of the new arrivals, trying to talk and stick her tongue in his ear at the same time. So much for love when it’s time to make some money.

That gave me something to think about as I flew back to South Vietnam. There’s a time and place for everything, and just then, it was time for her to make hay while the sun was shining. If we hadn’t flooded her country with big-spending GIs like me, who had more money than good sense, she probably would be married to some young rice farmer, raising little Thai babies. Way to go, America!

I got back to Vietnam just in time to make a report to the big shots and pack for R & R in Hawaii, where my wife was waiting for me. She’d left our little grunts with her folks and headed over to the sun-caressed islands to soothe me and
reward my sacrifice with six grand nights of passion. Wisely, I said nothing about where I had just been, or with whom.

My wife, so tall and darkly attractive, with her blue eyes and sweet breath, was a welcome sight after the shorter Vietnamese women who always smelled of
nuoc mam
sauce. Made from fermenting fish and vegetables, the condiment curled the hairs in your nose when you first smelled it.

Between love bouts in the bedroom or shower, we went all over the island, enjoying the sights and each other’s company. Hawaii went out of its way to welcome the GIs on R & R. Every evening, we ate at some beautiful restaurant, and at every establishment we were introduced, along with all the other Vietnam soldiers there with their spouses, to the rest of the guests. That sure made me feel proud. I will always feel a special place in my heart for the warm islands and their warmhearted people. They certainly made me feel welcome and appreciated, and that was at a time when many people in America were spitting at men in uniforms. Of course, we repaid the favor by pouring tons of money on their economy. Hopefully, everyone came out ahead.

Early one morning, we went to the USS
Arizona
Memorial in the waters of Pearl Harbor, and then to the Punchbowl National Cemetery. The quiet peacefulness of the places infused me with a sort of inner strength to continue. I knew if I fell to the enemy, I’d share the ground with brave soldiers and know everlasting peace. It was comforting in a morbid sort of way.

Too soon, it was over and I said good-bye to a teary wife as I fought to stay strong so she wouldn’t know how badly it hurt to leave her again. I headed back to CCN, hopeful my last half would go by as fast and as safely as my first. I didn’t stay awake long after the plane got off the ground. Love is a manysplendor’d thing, but it is tiring as can be, especially when you go all out trying to set the modern-day record in a week without a few time-outs. After hearing the boasts of fellow returnees to the combat zone, I didn’t bother to try and outbrag them; I still have trouble believing it can be done so often, so
many different ways, in so short a time. But then, you know how soldiers like to stretch the truth when telling a story.

I would gladly have suffered through the rest of the war the way I had that month, if I’d only been asked; sadly, but not surprisingly, no one did.

Every man hopes he will be a party to some great event in his lifetime. I was no exception. Fortunately, it happened to me. I was there when Dick Swanson got his immortal nickname. I had the good luck, or maybe misfortune, to know a happy-go-lucky mountain boy from Tennessee named Dick Swanson. Rather, SFC Richard Swanson, soon to be famous throughout I Corps as Swizzle Dick Swanson. His exploits will stand the test of time as one of the best of those whose name is etched on the Wall of Fame in the Kooks’ Hall of Heroes.

It all started on a quiet afternoon while I was conducting some business in the headquarters building. Colonel Isler had been promoted to full-bull, and moved on down to Saigon, as head of ground ops. A new lieutenant colonel named Donahue had replaced him. We wondered what idiots were running SF down in Nha Trang, since the new boss wasn’t SF qualified. Still, our job remained the same, so we pressed on. The bosses came and went, and the grunts did the dirty work. That was the army way.

“Hey, Nick,” the new CCN executive officer, Major Orentes, called to me from his office as I went past. “Step in here a second.” The Hispanic officer sat at his desk, doing the unending paperwork that XOs are cursed with as part of their job description. Dark, husky, and every inch a professional soldier, he was a welcome addition to CCN.

“Yes, sir. What’s up?”

“We’re being assigned an SFC from Nha Trang who tore up some bar in a drunken brawl. Apparently, he’s a first-class troublemaker, but you’re short a recon team sergeant since Holland rotated, so I’m assigning him to you. Try and keep him out of trouble, if that’s possible. Name’s Swanson, Richard Swanson. He’ll arrive tomorrow on the morning shuttle. Get him picked up and processed. Lay down the law, too. No horseshit screwing around, or he’ll end up guarding the garbage dump for the rest of his tour, and as a PFC.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. “Hey, I wonder if this is the same Dick Swanson I knew back at Fort Bragg? Hell, he’s about the best rifle shot in the army. Set the record at the sniper school a few years ago. I hope so. I could use a good sniper-team leader.”

“I don’t know,” the XO replied. “All I have on the man is that he’s gotten in more trouble than any three sailors on shore leave. You keep your eyes on him.”

Sure enough, the next morning who comes dragging off the plane but the very same Dick Swanson I remembered. He was red-eyed and obviously needing a strong dose of the hair of the dog, but he was indeed Sergeant First Class Swanson, sniper extraordinaire. He casually slid his lanky frame on the passenger seat of my jeep, and forlornly looked at the world around him.

I greeted him, told him who I was, and that he would be serving in my company. “Oh, yeah,” he finally nodded. “I remember you, Captain. Glad to be serving with ya agin.”

From my first impression, I had my doubts he remembered me or wanted to serve under me, but nodded and kept quiet during the drive back to CCN. Swanson sat slouched in his seat, barely able to stay awake, he was so hungover. Back at CCN, I gave him my standard speech on what I expected from my soldiers, plus a little bit more to satisfy the XO, and dismissed him with instructions to get some rest and show up ready for work the next day. As he left the little office
my company used as headquarters, I called for Lieutenant McMurray.

My young XO showed up promptly and had a seat. “You wanted to see me,
Dai Uy?
”

I explained Swanson’s skills with the rifle and what I had in mind. “I’d like to give Sergeant Swanson command of Recon Team Asp,” I told Mac. “I thought we’d put the best shots from the company in it, and use them as the sniper team. They can support the rest of the company as long-range sniper support on the big operations.”

“Good idea,
Dai Uy
. More than once since I’ve been here, we could have used sniper support. I like it. I’ll get with the platoon leaders and draw up a team roster. The radio operator on Team Cobra has been to the 9th Division sniper school down in IV Corps, so I’ll transfer him over to Asp as the One-one.” (The team leader was called One-zero, and the American radio operator, who was the second in command, was called the One-one. Thus, when we talked on the radio to them, it would be: “Asp One-zero, this is Sneaky Six. Over.”)

To my delight, Swanson jumped in with both feet and became a damn good team leader. He worked hard training his men in the techniques of sniper support. I looked forward to the time when we could use Asp in a real mission. In the meantime, Swanson stayed out of trouble, and everything remained calm. I should have known a storm was coming. He was being too good, for Dick Swanson.

As I have previously mentioned, CCN’s location was on Da Nang Bay, right at the water’s edge. The ocean was a pleasant diversion on a hot afternoon, and just about everyone used it whenever possible. Most of the time, we would just go out the back gate, drop our drawers, and swim in the nude. Rarely was there any reason to wear a swimsuit, at least in our opinion.

In retrospect, I’m a little ashamed at our cavalier attitude toward the Vietnamese women who worked in the camp as
hootch girls. I don’t think we ever thought of them as much more than pieces of furniture. More than once, I went swimming naked with some of my comrades, paying no attention to the women working just on the other side of the razor wire, washing clothes or polishing boots, and maybe, if they cared to look, watching us.

Down the beach, less than half a mile away, was the 3d Medevac Hospital, with a full complement of female nurses. The highlight of the evening bull sessions at the club would be after one of our soldiers wrangled a date with one of the desirable “round-eyes.” The nurses were usually much too experienced as women in a combat zone to ever take a chance on dating a horny-toad Special Forces soldier, especially one from CCN. Our bad reputation had been established long before I ever arrived in country. Our unofficial motto was, “Tomorrow we die, so let’s get it on tonight.”

Besides, those nurses who did date seemed to prefer the doctors from their own unit. The nurses at least knew what they were getting for their favors. A doctor’s future was much brighter than any long-range reconnaissance trooper’s could ever hope to be. Not that we gave a damn, but any self-respecting female ought to.

However, the nurses weren’t above sitting on their quarters’ patio with binoculars and scoping out the scene as we romped buck naked in the foamy surf. We saw them, and heard from our sources that it was a common practice for them when a bunch of us were at the beach. Most of us didn’t mind, and some were rather proud to flaunt what we hoped to be an impressive display of masculine hardware.

One sunny afternoon, I was at the beach with a couple of my officers, soaking up some rays, and running into the surf for a cooling dip every so often when Sergeant Swanson and a sergeant named Brian Krause showed up. Brian owned the only surfboard in Da Nang, and he and Dick used it on the puny waves of the bay now and then. They stripped off and
splashed around a while, and then came up above the surf line to warm up.

While we were sitting there, the conversation got around to the fact that some nurses were watching us from their patio. Swanson shaded his eyes and looked in the direction we pointed. Then he got up and strolled down to the water, stood there looking at the waves, and then came back.

“Damn right,” he whispered conspiratorialy. “One of them gals is a-watching me right now. I can feel her eyes followin’ every move I make. By God, I’m gonna go down there and get me a date. I haven’t had any round-eye pussy since I left the States.”

“Come on, Dick,” I scoffed. “Those nurses won’t date any slobs like us, and besides, they’re all officers. They wouldn’t go out with a sergeant, not with all the brass around here who’d give their eyeteeth to get into their panties. It’d just be a waste of energy, walking all the way down there.” I rolled over to roast my back a while.

Everyone grunted agreement, and hooted ridicule at poor old Swanson’s audacity. Suddenly, I heard someone say, “Damn, he’s gonna do it.” I looked up in amazement.

Sure enough, Dick had pulled on his shorts and was jogging down the beach, headed right toward those poor nurses, bold as brass.

In about an hour, just as we were ready to go back inside the wire, certain that he was locked up in the Da Nang guardhouse, here he came, jogging up the beach, a satisfied smile on his lean kisser. He wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, lean as a mountain lion, black hair, and deep blue eyes. He was as tough as a Tennessee mule, which is where he grew up, and hung just about as good. He’d carried a first-class reputation as a swordsman back at Fort Bragg. A girl could have done worse.