15 Months in SOG (15 page)

“How’d it go, Casanova?” I asked, certain he’d been shot down in flames.

“Not too bad,
Dai Uy,
” he replied. “Got me a date Saturday
night with a sweet little nurse. We’re eatin’ at the Stone Elephant, and then headin’ to downtown Da Nang for some serious partying.” The Stone Elephant was the navy officers’ club in Da Nang city and had the best food in I Corps, bar none.

“Well I’ll be a cross-eyed SOB,” I muttered. “I never thought you could do it. Congratulations!”

We crowded round, asking questions of the hero of the day. Old Swanson made numerous boasts as to what was in store for the unfortunate gal of his current desires, and we all awaited Saturday with eager anticipation. Dick might just open the doors a little for us with the hard-to-get-at nurses.

By Saturday evening, the whole camp was in a dither, anxious to hear the conclusion to the saga of the nurse and Sergeant Swanson.

I was talking with my XO, Lieutenant McMurray, and he mentioned that some of the TOC officers were going to eat at the Stone Elephant and were hoping to get a glimpse of Swanson’s date.

“Good idea,” I chortled. “Let’s go ourselves. I’d like to see who’s crazy enough to date that wild man anyway. I’ll take all the company officers with us.”

As soon as we were ready, we piled into a couple of jeeps and headed for the Stone Elephant, jittery as the parents of a teenager on his or her first date.

The bar was filled just the way it was most every night, largely with navy officers, a sprinkle of air force and army types adding color. The stools at the bar were filled with mostly younger customers, all drinking hard and shouting to be heard over the general noise level.

We grabbed a table and sat down. Mac nudged me in the ribs. “There he is,” he said, pointing with his thumb at the end of the long bar.

“There he is,” was an understatement: Swanson was resplendent in a wild, flowered luau shirt and tan slacks, freshly shaven, his unruly black hair plastered down with Brylcreem.
Next to him sat a pleasant-looking nurse, reasonably attractive. Even though her butt was already overflowing the bar stool, that night, in that place, she looked pretty damned good. Swanson was busy trying to sweet-talk her, but she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to him. In fact, she really seemed much more interested in the man to her right, an older man, dressed in civvies, by his age probably a major or better. From the way he was monopolizing the conversation, it seemed certain he was shooting poor old Swanson out of the saddle before Dick even got on.

We watched the little drama unfold, Swanson trying hard to be cool and carry on a conversation, and the chunky nurse turning more and more of her attention toward the other guy. After a while, Swanson quit trying, and just sat there nursing his drink. By then, the other two were deep into conversation, faces to each other, oblivious to the world around them. Poor old Swanson was shut out and shot down, and he didn’t like it. I could read that on his face, which grew grimmer with each drink that he chugged down—and he was draining them as fast as the Vietnamese bartender could deliver them.

While we watched, awaiting the outcome of the sideshow, the bartender brought another round of drinks to the trio, courtesy of Swanson’s date’s new friend, and sat them in front of the threesome. Swanson looked at his date. She had eyes only for the guy on her right. Without her noticing, Swanson carefully took his date’s drink and turned to face the floor, his back to her. Swiftly, he unzipped his pants, took out his monster weenie, and dropping it in the cold drink, stirred the fluid for an instant. Then, he calmly tucked his whizzer back into his pants, zipped up, and replaced the drink on the bar.

The room became almost deathly silent. Those who saw what had happened quickly told those who didn’t. Everyone waited to see the next scene in the little drama unfold. Swanson just sat quietly, nursing his drink, paying no attention to the pair beside him. The whole bar just waited in breathless anticipation. The silence grew deafening.

The talking twosome suddenly realized the bar was quiet, and looked around to see what was going on. The nurse didn’t like it. Somehow, she seemed to sense her involvement in a drama, even though she didn’t know how.

An annoyed frown on her face, she nervously reached for her drink. We watched and waited, the room absolutely quiet. She lifted the glass to her lips. She took a big gulp … The place exploded in pent-up hysteria.

I’m not sure that I have ever laughed so hard in my life. I was guffawing and coughing and pounding Mac on the arm. Everyone was carrying on hysterically except the three main actors. Swanson just sat, stoically sipping his drink and looking straight ahead. The nurse and her friend glared around the room, knowing something had occurred at their expense, but not sure what.

The uproar went on and on, and just when it seemed to be drying up, someone would laugh and start it again. People were streaming in from the outside to see what had happened. When told, their laughter added fresh fuel to keep the fire going.

Wiping tears from my eyes, I went up and grabbed Swanson’s arm. “Come on, partner, it’s time to get back to camp.” Leaning over to the fellow who had won Swanson’s date away, I asked, “You’ll get the lady home for him, won’t you?” I felt like adding, “Be sure not to kiss her good-night.” But, I didn’t, and I always wondered if he did. If so, and he reads this … 
surprise!

I knew the bartender would have the shore patrol there shortly so we piled into the jeep and roared away. All the way to camp, we laughed and hooted at the hilarious conclusion to the evening’s little drama. “What the hell were you thinking of?” I asked the more than a little drunk Swanson after we caught our breath.

“Hell,” he answered. “I just felt like my dingus was hot and tired and decided to give it a bath. I knew it would have to be a cold one, since I wasn’t gonna get no lovin’ from that bitch.
’Sides, her drink needed stirrin’ and there weren’t no swizzle sticks available.”

Laughing harder still, I shouted, “Swizzle Dick Swanson, you slay me. You’re the craziest SOB I ever met.”

Thus, Swizzle Dick Swanson got his name, and his fame endures today, at least in the memory of those who saw it or heard the story. Those who knew Dick never doubted the veracity of the tale, either.

It didn’t take long for the story to spread, and Swizzle Dick was the toast of the camp. I don’t think a nurse ever went out with a CCN soldier from then on, but so what? We had a man of fame with us, good for free drinks at most any bar in South Vietnam. It was better than any date would have turned out. Swanson became a hero to every grunt who watched the few available women in the godforsaken country date the big brass and ignore him.

Like all famous incidents, Dick’s time in the limelight faded fast, and we got back to the business of the war.

Not long thereafter, we received intelligence—see, there I go using that word again—that some VC commanders would be gathering in a small village a few miles west of the VN-Laos border, just far enough inside Laos to feel safe from American warplanes. My company was tasked to raid the village and get them, if possible, and kill them otherwise.

After looking at the map, I noticed that the village was next to a river, with a high bluff on one side. I decided to use Swanson and his sniper team as support from the high ground while we went in from the jungle side.

At sunset on the night picked for the raid, we loaded into choppers about dusk and flew to an LZ about five miles from the village. As we scrambled out of the black choppers, I motioned for Swanson to join me at the edge of the LZ. He was in his tiger suit, his face blackened. A scope-mounted .30-06 was cradled in his arms.

“Dick, you take your team and run point for us. I want to be
there by midnight, savvy?” I pointed to the high ground across from the village on my field map.

Swanson took a quick look at the map and nodded. “Gotcha.” He motioned to his recon team, and they moved out, the rest of my unit bringing up the rear.

We were there in about four hours, just as expected. Away from civilization, Sergeant Swanson was one fine soldier. He was definitely a field soldier.

I crept to the edge of the bluff and strained to see across the stream to the village just beyond. An American can’t imagine just how dark a country is where there is no electricity for lights and little money for gas lanterns. It was one of the hardest things for me to accept. A country so damned dark, once the sun set. A couple of low fires were all that was visible across the black water, but not three hundred yards from where we were lying was a village of huts and people and livestock.

I got sentries out and told everyone else to grab a couple hours of sleep. At four
A.M.
, we were on the march, headed for the rear of the village, while Dick and his team of three Bru Yards and his American One-one watched for problems from the hilltop, across the narrow stream. I wanted Dick to shoot anyone who tried to get away from us by crossing the water and to take out any resistance that he could target when the raid started. I glanced back as I left the RON, but didn’t see anything. Swanson and his men had already crawled into the brush next to the bluff’s edge, watching the village. From where he was, the village was an easy shot for a sniper with Swanson’s talents. I didn’t have any worries on that score.

It took us a couple of hours of hard work to get in position around and behind the village. Then we settled into the brush, waiting for enough light to make our assault.

The quiet time before a fight is difficult to describe. There’s a lot of pent-up tension, and fear keeps trying to work its insidious way into the brain. It’s also a time to remember things
because the images seem so fresh and bright. Perhaps because it may be for the last time. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline. That time I found myself spending the final few minutes remembering the wading pool I got for my little boys and the fun we’d had “swimming” in it the previous summer. The reverie helped me through the last minutes of darkness.

I could see the foliage around me, so it was time to start the show. Standing up, I motioned my men forward, and soon we were closing in on the unsuspecting village, still asleep, I hoped. As we moved forward, we formed a huge C around the village. The stream would be the back door of the trap.

Just as we reached the edge of the village, a voice penetrated the dimness of the early morning. A sentry had been right in the path of one of my soldiers. My soldier plunged a knife into the shouting man, but the damage had been done.

Shouting at the top of my lungs, I led my sweating soldiers into the village, moving from hut to hut, and sending in a Yard to herd any occupants outside for interrogation. At the far end, down by the river, AK-47 shots rang out, and then the muffled
pow!
of Swanson’s sniper rifle. A ragged volley of M-16 shots fired by my troops overwhelmed the enemy fire, and then two M-26 grenades
krumped
in the din.

I moved toward the shooting, darting past the dark doorways of several huts. Each time, I held my breath, afraid that someone inside would open up on me with an AK-47. By the time I reached the hut where all the firing had occurred, all was quiet. I could see my line of troops reaching the river’s edge. The raid was over. I glanced at my watch. It had taken three minutes.

Near a boat drawn up by one of the huts, a man lay dead, his head blown open by Swanson’s bullet. A still-smoking AK-47 was lying beside him. I waved toward the bluff, but didn’t see any response from the sniper team.

I turned back and entered the hut. It was a mess, with the damage caused by two hand grenades clearly evident.
Strewn about were the bodies of three men and two women, all quite dead.

“Drag ’em outside where we can look them over,” I instructed Lieutenant Lawrence. “Check the house for documents and guns. I’m gonna see how the rest of the unit did.”

I watched while the two South Vietnamese officers accompanying my unit quickly interrogated the occupants of the unfortunate village. It seemed that all the bad guys were in the one hut, except for guards. We’d killed one guard, and any others had beat feet away from the area.

The four men we killed, along with their two female traveling companions, were indeed VC big shots. We got a regional VC commander, a tax collector, and a political officer, as well as one of their special bodyguards. And of course, the two women, both with pistols strapped to their dead bodies.

“Bring me the radio,” I shouted at Pham. I decided to call in Swanson and his team, and extract from the edge of the stream. The choppers could easily land along its flat bank.

Just as I pushed the “talk” button, a burst of gunfire broke out on the bluff above us. We all dove for cover, but the shots weren’t directed at us. “Viper One-zero, this is Bravo Six. Come in, over.” The noise of the fighting up above us grew even louder and then, just as suddenly, died out. Again and again, I called, but received no answer.

“Saddle up,” I instructed my troops, who were all peering up at the high bluffs across the rippling water. I led the way back into the jungle and downriver to the spot we’d crossed just a couple of hours earlier. Moving fast, but cautiously, we returned to the spot where we’d left the five men in the sniper team.

The signs were everywhere. A vicious firefight had occurred here, blood and spent cartridges everywhere. Strangely, there was no sign of Swanson or any of his recon team. I called for my platoon leaders.

“Lawrence, you go east on a five-hundred-meter counterclockwise swing, and Will, you go north on a clockwise loop.
Keep a sharp eye, and watch out for the recon team and each other. I don’t want you two bumping into each other and shooting the hell out of yourselves. McMurray and I will stay here, and come a-runnin’ if you find anything. Clear? Then get going. I wanta get outa here quick as we can.”

The two search units were back in a couple of hours. Neither had seen a thing. I had the troops staying with me look for sign, but the dense jungle had swallowed both Swanson and his men. We never saw them again.