“It was the kind of news that surprised even insiders: Robert S. McNamara was departing the Pentagon after seven years to preside over the World Bank.”

—Newsweek, December 11, 1967

12

Changes

November 1967

Our operational tempo rose to a fever pitch in October. The pace of operations literally ran us ragged, going from one operation directly into another. Continuous operations in all four provinces of the division’s operational area became normal. In November, we finally returned to our base at the Binh Duc Training Center for a rare battalion change-ofcommand ceremony. I didn’t know what Major Bouie’s next assignment was, and frankly I didn’t care. I had been rather disappointed in his leadership.

Captain Nguyen Van Tao succeeded him. I had similar doubts about Captain Tao as well. He seemed to consider himself an aristocrat. Information was leaked, probably intentionally, that he was connected to Vietnam’s President Thieu through marriage. Tao’s wife was a beautiful Vietnamese woman from Cai Be, and she often drove a car to visit while we were in the Binh Duc center. Owning an automobile was a sure sign of prosperity in impoverished Vietnam. The change of command was accompanied by many other, more superficial, changes and some important adjustments as well.

Combat operations were transformed significantly under Tao. I suspected that Xuan influenced most of those, especially after he had risen to the challenge during the operation in Snoopy’s Nose. All men in the battalion began wearing a maroon scarf, signaling our identity to friendly aircraft as well as to ourselves during maneuvers. After the initial snickering about the scarves morale actually improved.

In the field Captain Xuan assumed a more direct leadership role, as well, shifting additional influence to me as his U.S. counterpart. I typically accompanied Xuan behind the lead company instead of walking with the first company commander. This benefited us in several ways, not the least of which was improved communications due to Xuan’s excellent English-language skills and proficiency in U.S. infantry tactics. Xuan became the combat leader, and that was a good thing.

One thing that made it good was that he appreciated the importance of supporting arms. As his U.S. fire support coordinator, I worked with him closely and effectively—and none too soon. Battalion search-and-destroy formation were modified to position two leading companies in parallel formation, instead of only one company leading in a single column following one man.

These changes alone more than doubled our potential as a maneuver force with better command and control, a broader front, and increased opportunities to employ U.S. firepower. These were significant advancements from our rice paddy view of the world.

Another important enhancement for us Americans was our each being assigned a dao binh in the British tradition of an officer’s “batman.” A dao binh was an ARVN soldier convicted of a nonviolent crime, such as desertion, and sentenced to work off his time by hard labor in the field. Dao binhs did not carry weapons, but they did carry our rucksacks. This helped considerably by reducing our heavy loads and, more important, it raised our prestige among the Vietnamese.

Our operational pace remained intense through November, but we made contact only with local guerilla bands instead of main force Viet Cong units. Snipers were emboldened, however, and became more aggressive in following, flanking, and stopping us with well-aimed shots. We continually evacuated soldiers wounded by well-placed fire from a considerable distance. We advisors became more apprehensive about our greater physical size and distinctive appearance compared with the smaller Vietnamese. We wanted to blend in to avoid being singled out by snipers, but that was obviously difficult.

We tried to live and eat as much like the Vietnamese as possible, but we didn’t get enough nourishment from perpetual duck soup and rice to preserve our strength. With help in carrying the extra weight, we could still eat with the Vietnamese to build relationships and still augment our diet with tasty C-rations from our rucksacks. The additional solid food helped us regain our vigor and some of the weight we had lost.

The monsoon rains eventually tapered off, but the scarcity of clean rainwater for drinking and cooking accompanied the drying of the rice fields. Although the Mekong delta was still covered in shallow water, finding clean drinking water was a serious concern. We were constantly reminded of Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner’s:” “Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.” Rice paddy water was dark with manure and mud, and the running streams were alkaline and bitter. The stagnant water was also a breeding ground for mosquitoes and leeches. We added two iodine tablets plus a package of sweetened Kool-Aid to each one-quart canteen of water to camouflage the pungent taste. The water in our canteens stayed warm and tasted like sweet sludge.

The best drinking water was rain collected off thatched roofs into large ceramic jugs. Although tinted green from the bamboo thatch, it was clear and clean. Mosquito larvae sometimes twitched on the surface, but that water represented liquid gold in the parched delta. Unfortunately, an ARVN or VC battalion could wipe out an entire hamlet’s water supply with one visit.

Some nights on operations during the dry season I went to sleep so thirsty I would hallucinate, usually dreaming about a large, ice-cold, frosty bottle of Coca-Cola. Other team members often related the same dreams, probably because we talked about them so often.

Mosquitoes were another nagging problem in the Delta. Generally, we slung small nylon hammocks for sleeping above the ground and we surrounded the hammock with a mosquito net. If we were near the enemy, we could not use the hammocks or netting, and the cannibal-like insects feasted on us. A thousand humming mosquitoes kept us awake all night, and multiple bites left our faces and hands swollen. Every day we gulped down a small white malaria pill with sludge water, and every Monday we forced ourselves to swallow a big orange malaria pill, knowing it would induce stomach cramps. An occasional glimpse of a Vietnamese soldier or civilian in agony with malaria dispelled any idea of skipping the pill.

An army moves on its stomach, but an army that scrounged off the land had more much difficulty in finding food in the dry season. Occasionally we killed a water buffalo to eat, but found it extremely tough; they were usually avoided because they were prized, almost sacred, possessions due to their utility as workhorses.

One day, just to get a bowl of soup, I accompanied a food detail into Cai Be. At the market I watched as the Vietnamese cooks bought caged rats to take back for dinner. I ordered an egg roll with my soup and selected only rice and vegetables at dinner.

However, after dinner I was invited to participate in a ceremony representing the drinking of the enemy’s blood. A soldier held a duck in the air, slit its throat and allowed the fresh blood to flow into a dish of peanuts. The dish was passed around for each of us to drink. My stomach flip-flopped when I was handed the dish, but I remembered the rats and knew it could be worse. I managed to suffer through this ceremony like a diplomat, but I felt more like a weak-kneed warrior.

Through those times, I stayed in touch with my family while sparing them most of the details. I wrote my sister Janet, a student at Georgia Southern University, wondering at the same time where she stood with the campus protests:

November 14, 1967

Dear Janet,

This will be brief because I am very tired. I’m just lying here waiting for time to turn the generator off and kill the noise and lights. I didn’t get much sleep the last several nights because of Charlie, but I’m going to sleep tonight, no matter what happens.

We just got back from a security mission in Cai Lay. Last night Charlie tried to hit the town but didn’t make it. He put a flag up out in front of our position though. This morning, we sent a company out to get it. We did get it plus four prisoners. I’m sending the flag home when I get a chance. This week we have a big operation starting here in the Delta. You will probably read about it in the papers.

Thanks for the letters. I know I’m pretty bad about answering, but I just haven’t had the opportunity lately.

Bob wrote me about his horse. I guess he is going to be a real cowboy. By the way, is the old car still running, or have you salvaged it yet?

I appreciate your writing. Keep it up and I’ll write again when I have more time.

By the end of November we had been on continuous operations for several weeks, and prepared for an extraction by helicopters. The battalion assembled in a large, dry rice field and lined up with security around the perimeter. I felt that we were finally a professional fighting force.

When a flight of eight helicopters approached, a soldier near the head of the formation popped a smoke grenade and tossed it into dry grass. The wind ignited the grass, transforming the LZ into an inferno. We faced a wall of flame as the fire swept through the dry waist-high grass. The helicopters flew past without landing, while ARVN soldiers ran for their lives—live ammunition, grenades, rocket launchers, and mortar rounds dangling from their bodies. The well-organized extraction morphed to total chaos in a matter of seconds. Then a sniper added panic to the confusion by firing at us before he fled the scene himself.

The inferno raged for four hours until it burned out. When the battalion finally reassembled, we waited another two hours for the helicopters. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

The news of “Mac-the-Knife’s” departure struck Washington with the force of a string of Claymore mines exploding along Pennsylvania Avenue. One friend remembered when McNamara expressed haunting fears that his counsel to two Presidents to pursue the war may have been ill advised.¹