15 Months in SOG (6 page)

Christmas Eve, I was posted just outside the door of the simple church, along with a bunch of my buddies, armed to the teeth, just hoping some overzealous VC would show his face. The opinionated old priest wouldn’t let any of us inside if we were armed, but from where I was, I had an unobstructed view of the services.

I’ll never forget the sweet little girls, dressed in their best clothing, usually white
ao dais
(a combination of long pants worn beneath a long shirt, slit to the waist) singing “Silent Night” in Vietnamese as they marched into the church. The candles held by the adults cast a warm, yellow glow on their smiling, innocent faces. They hadn’t been corrupted yet by the war, and I hoped that they hadn’t experienced too much horror and filth so early in their lives. My thoughts returned to my family and my little boys, and the familiar old lump worked its way back up into my throat.

The service went off without a hitch, and while we kept a close watch on the old priest and his church, we never saw any attempt to mess with him by the VC. Good thing, too; he was a very popular man.

Lt. Col. Martha Raye, the movie star, showed up right after Christmas. Colonel Maggie, as we called her, was touring Vietnam for the USO, and stopped by the compound while she was in the area. Maggie Raye was as wonderful, brave, and compassionate a human being as I’ve ever met. She was down-home, a square shooter, in spite of being a famous Hollywood comedienne. She was also a qualified nurse and pitched in more than once when visiting a unit that had casualties. The Special Forces had fallen in love with her and her way of showing up at the out-of-the-way places where SF troopers worked. We never were hesitant about showering her with affection, and Colonel Maggie returned our good feeling in kind with every bit of her great big heart. She actually was a reserve lieutenant colonel in the Army Nurse Corps. But she had the heart of a four-star general.

Maggie always knew several of us from earlier USO tours or from visits to her home in LA because she had extended an open invitation to SF guys passing through the West Coast to stay awhile. So we rolled out the red carpet and welcomed her as an old friend to visit with us. She was supposed to visit for just a couple of days, but as circumstances would have it, she stayed even longer.

Colonel Maggie drank vodka straight, and by gosh, could she do it right. She drank many a big rugged SF trooper under the table and called out in her raucous and hearty voice for the next victim to step up. Her presence made the upcoming New Year’s celebration one to anticipate.

The day before New Year’s, we were tasked by HQ MAC-SOG to put out a reaction force at a key intersection of the Ho Chi Minh trail to be ready to strike in case the NVA started moving supplies the minute the holiday cease-fire ended. B Company, the reaction standby unit, packed up and was choppered out by noon.

They were back by four, shot to hell and back. I debriefed the senior surviving American, Lt. Will Turin. “They were all over us as soon as we landed,” he said as he struggled to maintain his composure. “Captain Jones was hit almost as soon as he dropped off the chopper. Lieutenant Jefferson and Sergeant Proudlock dragged him to a pile of brush next to the LZ (landing zone). The NVA had the LZ completely covered by fire.”

Lieutenant Turin paused to take a deep breath. He was streaked with sweat, and he kept licking his dry lips. His young face was drained of blood and pinched tight in nervous reaction to the events he’d just experienced. His hands twitched, and his voice was higher pitched than usual. “My chopper touched down only long enough to pick up three of the men from the first lift. There’s six still out there. Captain Jones, Jefferson, Proudlock, and Lieutenant Nham of the VNSF, and two Yards.”

He paused and wiped the sweat from his camouflaged brow, smearing the black and green grease all over his hand. “We circled and called for twenty minutes, but never got a reply. Finally, we ran low on fuel and returned to base.” He looked up with anguish all over his face. “Jesus, Captain, we’ve got to go back. They may still be alive. We’ve gotta get ’em.”

“Don’t worry, Will. The CO is sending out a scout team
right now. They’ll drop in a few klicks (kilometers) from the LZ and work their way in close. If they find anything, we’ll send in a strike force ASAP.”

Just before dark, the word came over the radio. The relief team had sneaked up to the hot LZ. No sign of NVA, but the six dead CCN troopers were still where they fell. The NVA hadn’t yet stripped or mutilated the bodies, which was really weird. Their usual tactic was to behead dead SF soldiers so they could show the grisly trophies to local villagers. They also took anything of value from the bodies. I suppose the constant air cover over the ambush site had scared them off. The team brought the dead soldiers back with them on the extraction chopper.

Colonel Warren had the entire command out at the tarmac when the Huey arrived. Two hundred saddened American soldiers stood at solemn attention as the six limp bodies were lifted off the chopper, which then hammered aloft and, dipping its nose into the wind like a bow of respect, roared away. For a moment, the living stood in silence. Colonel Warren gave an impassioned speech about danger, bravery, and sacrifice, and we then slowly filed by our dead comrades and returned to our duties, soberly reflecting on what we saw. The still faces and sightless eyes of our dead comrades watched us as we filed past. They were beyond our understanding now, taking one last look at the living before going into the dark confines of their metal caskets for the long trip home and the final, sad good-bye from their loves ones.

Captain Jones and Sergeant Proudlock had been very popular with everyone. They had a lot of friends mourning them that evening. Colonel Maggie stayed an extra day, being there to talk, drinking with those who wanted company, consoling saddened friends. She was just great. I am privileged to have had her for a friend.

That night, I sat at my desk, writing a letter home to my wife. I was as sorrowful as any of the others, but I also was carefully containing excited feelings. The CO had given me
command of the late Captain Jones’s company. I was now the commanding officer of B Company, the raider company for CCN. The tragedy brought with it a gift for me. The command of a combat unit in the best and fightin’est organization that crummy war had. I would gratefully give it up to have Jones and the others back, but we were at war, and such things happened. As foolish and, yes, as callous as it may seem, I felt a rush of excitement as I viewed the coming new year.

Happy New Year, 1969. Now that I was a company commander, rather than just an assistant staff officer, I sensed a subtle change in the CO’s attitude toward me. Perhaps I was back in the good graces of Colonel Warren. So, wouldn’t you know it? He got transferred. A new boss, Lieutenant Colonel Isler, came on board. We discovered we shared a love of football, and while I wasn’t down-home comfortable with him, at least I wasn’t crossing the street to avoid him. “The Iceman” was a big fan of the New York Jets and Joe Namath, and offered to bet any amount they would beat the NFL in the Super Bowl. He ended up making a pile of money from diehards like me, who swore the new league’s champion team couldn’t whip the Baltimore Colts on their best day.

I put many hours in January 1969 running B Company through general training exercises to upgrade their basic skills and to give me a chance to evaluate my command and the company’s level of training, the quality of the officers and NCOs in charge, and the quality of the Montagnard soldiers.

B Company was 188 men strong at full strength, with four platoons of 45 soldiers and a headquarters section of 8 men. The Montagnard soldiers were from the Bru tribe, which came originally from Northern Laos. CCN had nearly three hundred Bru under contract. I also had five young American lieutenants to boss around, four platoon leaders and an executive officer, whom everyone had started to call ell-tees. I was fortunate to have a top-notch company first sergeant named
Sam Fischer, who was a seasoned, professional soldier. He was short and rapidly heading to baldness, with a friendly, weather-seamed face, browned by the sun. He was crisp and sure of himself, with a strong military bearing. He had been a Special Forces NCO for many years and knew how to guide me in the direction he wanted me to take without ever giving offense. As long as I listened to him, I stayed out of trouble.

My XO was a medium-height, dark-haired, husky youngster from Ohio named Peter McMurray, all full of piss and vinegar and the exuberance of youth. Of course, everyone called him Mac, so I called him Pete. He was great to work with, and we became close friends. His infectious laugh and devil-may-care attitude were just the tonic I needed to keep me loose.

Pete had been with the company for a few months and knew what it took to make the unit run efficiently. His support was essential in my transition of command. The unit slowly recovered from the shock of Captain Jones’s and the others’ deaths. First Sergeant Fischer and I kept the men busy training, which helped to keep their minds occupied. It showed just how fleeting personal emotions among soldiers were. Once gone, quickly forgotten, until the quiet times, when dark memories slipped back into consciousness, uninvited.

I spent my days inspecting the men and their training, just to get them used to seeing me, and to help if I could. I had my choice of a new lieutenant to replace Jefferson, and chose 2d Lt. Ray Lawrence, who had just come up from Nha Trang as a replacement. He was a tall, gangly redhead, born and raised in South Carolina. Ray was perfect in temperament for command of a Montagnard platoon. I never saw him angry or impatient with his troops, who could do things that would drive a teetotaler to drink.

The eager, young Montagnard soldiers were anxious to please me and tried their best to do what I asked of them. Most could understand pidgin English, or even more, unless I tried to fuss at one of them for messing up. Then it was, “So solly,
please, no understand English.” Compared to Americans, they were little fellows. Most were well under five feet six inches, and dark brown from all the years in the bright Southeast Asia sun. Many were seasoned troops who had survived the Lang Vei fight in February of ’68. Prior to that, they had been run out of their traditional home in Northern Laos by the NVA. They were very brave and tried hard to be good soldiers when Americans led them. They didn’t like the Vietnamese and wouldn’t fight for the ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) Special Forces officers assigned to our unit. That suited me fine as I wanted to command them personally.

I made it a point to find a tall Yard to be my radio operator, since I’d learn the hard way in my first tour that the VC liked to start an ambush by shooting at the taller targets, who were usually Americans. I considered that a most unfair way to start any fight, but if they insisted on being so determined to shoot me, I did my best to make it hard for them to find me.

To my satisfaction, one of the soldiers in the company was nearly six feet tall. If I hunched down, we would present two similar targets instead of one to an eagle-eyed VC rifleman. The tall Yard’s name was Pham Tuc, and he had the usual baby face and dark, chocolate-colored skin of the Montagnard. He was thin, wiry, and tough, and stronger than a person would ever imagine from looking at him. Pham was proud as could be to be chosen for the honor of carrying the
Dai Uy
’s radio. I never went to the field without him. He was barely seventeen, and come to find out, the son of the headman in his home village. Pham was a brave and loyal soldier, and I sort of unofficially adopted him like an older son. His karma and mine all interwoven, we grew to be very fond of one another.

Colonel Isler sent for me toward the end of the month. Briefly, we discussed my company and how I evaluated their skills at soldiering. “Nick, I want you to fly up to Bon Hai with the body of the striker killed Thursday in the grenade accident.”

A Montagnard soldier from recon team Coral had been
setting up an ambush during training exercises. Apparently, he’d pulled the pin on a hand grenade prior to setting a booby trap, and the grenade exploded in his hands. Since he was a member of my company, I had been waiting at the dispensary when they brought in the body. Pham had been with me because he claimed the dead striker was a cousin from his village.

The M-26 grenade is a deadly efficient antipersonnel weapon in which notched piano wire is wrapped around an explosive charge. When the charge blows, the wrapped wire breaks and fans out in a thousand little shards of hot death. Hold a grenade in your hands when it explodes, and it makes quite a mess. The dead striker was shredded meat, no hands or face, and most of his insides, outside. Pham was white faced, but otherwise took the tragedy well because the Yards believed in reincarnation, that death was only the first step in a new start, hopefully in better circumstances.

Colonel Isler continued. “The dead striker came from the Montagnard settlement up at Bon Hai, and we need to recruit some more men to replace the losses of the last two months. Take a couple of your officers and an escort of local Yards. Major Khai (who was our Army of South Vietnam counterpart) is giving the dead man a VN award for heroism during his last recon mission. Present it to the dead man’s family.”

The Iceman paused and lit one of his thin cigars. “Try to recruit a dozen new men if you can. See Captain Lopez, and get some piasters (Vietnamese currency) for bonus money for the village chief. Lopez’ll tell you what the going rate for a death benefit is. I’ll order a chopper to pick you up tomorrow morning. Get back by dark tomorrow night. Oh, yeah, tell Lopez to get you a couple of cows, too. The Yards will want to have a feast in honor of your visit and for the funeral. They make quite a party out of their funerals.”

Isler smiled at me with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Watch out for the drinks. The stuff they serve will cut varnish.”

I saluted and left the Old Man’s office. Back in the company area, I sent for First Sergeant Fischer. As soon as he settled down in the other chair in my little office, I told him about the escort duty and our recruiting assignment. “Who should I take with me?”