Master Chief (14 page)

On August twenty-first Dai Uy gave his PLO at 1400 hours, and at 1630 gave us another updated briefing at the Seawolf helo pad. That was followed by discussion among shotgun, Seawolf, and Sea Lord pilots about the best avenues of approach to the target, shotgun (FAC) vectoring, and so on.

By 1745 we had picked up Chief Muoi and his “sweetie” and three PSB operatives at the Cai Be district subsector and were sitting in our Sea Lord slicks looking down at the rice paddies, swamps, and tree lines that we were clearing by only a few feet and at nearly one hundred knots. Shotguns Eddie Dean and Doc were already on station and were busy vectoring our Seawolf and Sea Lord helos on the prearranged avenues of approach.

At 1800, as the sun was getting low on the western horizon, we inserted near several hootches that were approximately three to four hundred meters from the tree line where the VC 341X Battalion headquarters was located. During and after our insertion, we received light AK-47 and RPD machine-gun fire from the ominous tree line. We knew that the VC had a well-developed bunker complex for their battalion’s administrative offices and equipment within the narrow but dense forest, and we were prepared to destroy them in any manner we could.

Dai Uy and 1st Squad quickly assaulted their assigned hootch and found it empty. “Killer’s” and Mr. K.’s and my 2nd Squad assaulted our hootch and managed to grease one of two VC who were sprinting behind it toward the nearby tree line. Neither I, with my XM-148’s 40mm HE rounds, nor Chambo and Little Bear, with their M-60s, were able to get the surviving VC. Same’s Stoner and our SAS mates with their SLRs also struck out due to the range and the VC’s circuitous route and natural cover. Trung Uy quickly called in one of the Seawolves to get the VC with its minigun. We watched with awe as the
Seawolf gunship came in low as a charging lion, with his minigun blazing at six thousand rounds per minute. The poor fellow was literally lifted off his feet by the impact of the hundreds of 150-grain bullets smashing through his body and was thrown forward approximately eight to ten feet, just before he would have reached the safety of the tree line. Everyone cheered and waved at the Seawolf pilot, copilot, and door gunner as the pilot violently lifted the helo just in time to miss the treetops and banked hard to the left. We watched the door gunner as he leaned almost completely out of the side door—he was wearing a safety belt—with his pedestal-mounted M-60 blazing away at 550 rounds a minute toward the source of tracers that were coming from directly below him.

“Those guys are great!” I yelled to Quear. All of us, as always, were very impressed with the professionalism of our HAL-3/VAL-4 airdale buddies and thankful for their faithful support.

Unfortunately, we had again lost the element of surprise. Shortly after we had inserted, Chief Muoi told Dai Uy that the VC had been somehow forewarned of our coming and, naturally, were forearmed and entrenched for any assault against their well-concealed positions. The tactical situation had degenerated to the principle of mass—we were now out of our element. Nathan Bedford Forrest, a Confederate general, was supposed to have said, “The firstest with the mostest wins the battle.”

However, the tactical situation did allow us to fire and maneuver. Dai Uy wasn’t one to give up, and decided that we would feign flanking movements against the main source of the VC small arms fire by 1st Squad moving to the left and 2nd Squad moving to the right in single files—with the enemy at right angles—for a maximum rate of fire when needed. Our objective was to draw continual enemy fire by our fire and movement until they had
exposed their exact positions long enough for the Seawolves to locate and destroy them one by one with their 2.75-inch rockets, 40mm HE rounds, 7.62mm minigun, and their M-60 machine gun.

Second Squad gradually moved, using the leapfrog method, toward right flank and the tree line, as did 1st Squad. Once each squad had taken cover behind a rice dike or other available cover, Dai Uy gave the word to commence firing for no more than thirty seconds and at a slow rate of fire. We then continued our leapfrogging to left and right flanks to other positions of cover and fired for another thirty seconds.

The VC swallowed our ruse hook, line, and sinker. The Seawolves’ gunships had a heyday destroying the VC battalion headquarters. November Platoon and our SAS mates weren’t credited with many KIAs that day, but our Seawolf partners were. They were fearless under fire and were magnificent in their line of duty.

As in all good things, time ran out on us. It was last light, and time for platoon rendezvous and extraction. The Seawolves had begun to drop an occasional para flare to illuminate the enemy positions and to aid our extraction. While the Seawolves continued their strafing and rocket runs, we set up our H formations, marked at each corner with blue-lensed strobe lights, and extracted shortly after o’dark-thirty.

Despite vexations from many quarters, there was no doubt in my mind that night that, as a team, we were invincible!

The next day we received word that five SEAL Team 1 guys had been caught smuggling heroin into the States from Vietnam. Because I didn’t condone the use of drugs and I had never seen or heard of any of my teammates using any form of drugs, I was stunned. I was very disappointed with those guys and was sad, because I really liked all of them. They were good operators, very likable, and always seemed to be highly motivated.

Later that evening Dai Uy had Chief Bassett muster the platoon and our SAS mates in our bar. We had a group discussion on the legal and moral problems of using drugs, the Navy and team policy of no drugs and reasons why, as teammates, we couldn’t, wouldn’t, and shouldn’t approve of the use of drugs. We unanimously condemned the use of drugs—other than alcohol, of course—and vowed to police our own ranks, if necessary. When we finished talking, it was near midnight and time to hit the sack.

August twenty-third was another very disappointing day. Items were constantly disappearing from our living space. Finally, a couple of the guys searched our Kit Carson scouts’ lockers while they were in My Tho and found our stolen operating gear, several of our S&W pistols and revolvers, money, fans, sheets, poncho liners, mosquito nets, civilian clothing, uniforms, and other things. The TV set that was in our lounge was also stolen, and our scouts were the only Vietnamese allowed in our barracks. Because we had caught them with our stolen gear in their lockers, and they had dishonored our trust in them, there was only one choice, and that was to get rid of them gradually and covertly. In the meantime we moved them down below where our MST mates had berthed previously. We were not very popular with our scouts after that.

Starting on August twenty-sixth Doc and I were to be the first to go on R&R. I spent five very relaxing days in Honolulu fishing, diving, sailing, eating great meals,
listening to Martin Denny and his band at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel during the evenings, and visiting my favorite bar, Davy Jones Locker. Diamond Head and the Waikiki beach were just as beautiful as they had been the previous year when I was there on R&R. It was great to get away from Vietnam and its pressures and look at our beautiful round-eyed women again.

On the morning of September third I was eating a sandwich at Mama-san’s across the street from NavForV in Saigon while watching the pretty Vietnamese maidens walk by with their
ao dais
(long, silk tunics) flowing in the breeze. I always thought of the Vietnamese women as being very pretty, feminine, soft-spoken, and dainty. After my quick breakfast, I went to the NavForV’s drafting department to visit with Petty Officer Lightfoot and checked to see if he had completed the three VC Order of Battle block diagram training-aid charts that I had asked him to make for me. The charts were not only completed, but Lightfoot had done an exceptionally professional job of constructing them. Later, I managed to catch a ride to Dong Tam, and arrived in time for lunch.

The first thing I was told was that our SAS mates had returned to Nui Det. Everyone missed them. Later that afternoon, about half of us started our first 1½-to-two-hour tae kwon do lesson at twenty dollars and twenty lessons per month, to be paid in advance monthly. Our instructor was Captain Kim, who had a second degree black belt. He was a very good instructor and seemed to enjoy teaching us.

After supper, Senior Chief Bassett asked me to alternate with him as the bartender for our busy bar during the evenings. A couple of the guys had begun to drink too much and were becoming more and more difficult to get up in the mornings. Chief’s solution was for he and I to control the bar and to secure it no later than 2400 each night except for special parties.

At 0830 on August fifth Chief Bassett, Compton, Same, Hayden, Chief Thompson (our staff photo interpreter), and I headed for Saigon in our diesel five-ton truck. Hayden, Same, and Compton were going on R&R, Chief Bassett was to cumshaw goodies for our living spaces, and Chief Thompson and I were to work on intel-related matters. I was driving the truck, Thompson sat in the middle, and Bassett on the right, while the rest of the guys were riding in the back. We were forced to stop time and again because of the heavy, disorganized traffic. The temperature was well over 100 degrees, the humidity was in the ninetieth percentile, sweat beads were running down the cracks of our butts, there was no breeze, and we were all getting very irritated at the Vietnamese and their chaotic traffic conditions.

“Hey, Smitty, the next time you stop, continue revving the engine,” instructed Hayden, an ardent prankster.

Not knowing why, I asked, “Why should I do that?”

All three of the guys in the back started laughing. “Our truck’s exhaust pipe is broken off under the right front fender, and it just happens to be pointed directly to our right. Each time you rev the engine, a cloud of black exhaust fumes shoots directly into any cab or motorcycle that’s alongside,” Hayden explained.

Bassett and I laughed at the thought. Each time we were forced to come to another stop, Bassett would guide me to move forward, left or right a few inches until we had a vehicle or motorcycle exactly alongside our right fender. Because the traffic was often packed, there was little chance for the targeted victim to escape. Once Bassett gave the word, I would race the engine and make life absolutely miserable for our neighbor and anyone else in the immediate vicinity. At first all the poor fellow next to us knew was that there was an incredible black cloud of hot fumes enveloping him from his left. In a matter of
seconds the driver showed symptoms of a clouded vision, choking spasms, dilating of the pupils, and faintness.

Same yelled, “I think he’s suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“Yeah, maybe you ought to climb down and give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, Same,” Compton quipped.

At our next intersection we managed to ambush a nicely dressed Vietnamese male motorcyclist. After a good shot of blackened soot on his clean white shirt, the fellow jumped like a heart-shot armadillo, revved his engine, popped the clutch and sideswiped several cabbies as he disappeared around the corner.

Chief Thompson, who had come over with Bassett and the boys, was a small, wiry fellow with a good crop of bushy eyebrows and a pair of large, cauliflower ears. For some unknown reason, the normally phlegmatic Chief Thompson spoke up and asked, “Did you hear about the ol’ gal that had a wooden baby?”

No one answered until Same, being a little naive, finally said, “Why, no, I haven’t, Chief.”

“She got nailed by a carpenter,” Thompson answered without a sign of emotion.

Bassett started laughing and commented, “Why, you conjuring old fart, now I know why you never say much. I always knew you photo interpreters were a strange lot.”

“Yeah, you perverse, nasty old goat,” I teased as I nudged Tommy with my right elbow.

A big grin came over Thompson’s face, which I couldn’t have beat off his puss with a ball-peen hammer. He was always easy to please, and he was now one of the guys.

By the time we reached NavForV, all of us were in a festive mood. The rest of the day was a piece of cake. Even Lieutenant Van Heertum couldn’t make me mad.

The next morning, September sixth, Dai Uy and I
drove to My Tho. Lieutenant Fletcher continued his coordination with two Vietnamese Saigon PSB personnel, PSB chief Hue and Cai Lay PSB’s district operations chief Muoi, and debriefed two PSDFs—South Vietnamese People’s Self-Defense Force, which was composed mostly of old men and boys—concerning ten NVA Rear Services personnel who were reported to be located approximately six to seven klicks north of the Cai Lay district’s subsector, near the My Phuoc village.

In the meantime, I went to the Embassy House to see Mr. Tai and Mr. Bai and to pick up a few translated Chieu Hoi reports and diversionary name traces. As I was about to leave, Mr. Bai invited me over to his house for a Ba Muoi Ba (French “33” beer). I accepted, knowing that he was going to try to elicit information about November Platoon’s intelligence information nets, among other things. I knew that Chief Hue (PSB) probably had penetrated five of our six nets through our principal agents and/or interpreters—I just hadn’t proved it yet.

After we walked to his home and sat down with a beer, Bai, who spoke nearly perfect English, opened by saying, “Smitty, because you have been my good friend since ’sixty-nine and ’seventy, I will be glad to help you in any way and on anything that I can.”

I lifted my beer as a toast and replied, “I am thankful that you and your father-in-law, Chief Muoi,” of the Province National Police, “have always been my faithful friends. I know that you and Chief Hue are aware of my problems with some of our agents. If you and he have any recommendations or advice, I would be very grateful. I have much to learn.”

Bai smiled and was very pleased with my confirming our friendship and request for professional advice. Later, I asked him to draw a block diagram of the PSB’s organization at sector and subsector levels and to explain to me
how they might parallel the VC security sections at the same provincial and district levels. Bai was flattered and had soon drawn two rough block diagrams when I asked him another question. “I understand that neither the Company nor PSB directly runs the Chieu Hoi Center anymore. I’ve been told that President Thieu has created the Ministry of Chieu Hoi. Is that true?”