“Much to the embarrassment of U.S. military officials, two NVA defectors report that North Vietnam’s intelligence agencies provide as much as 24 hours notice of U.S. B-52 raids.”

—The Vietnam War Day by Day

20

Rats of a Different Kind

March 1968

Intelligence reports informed us that we were being observed. We didn’t need sophisticated equipment to figure that out. We were aware that our departures from our compound and our convoy movements were observed and reported to Viet Cong forces nearby. Initial reports that we were preparing to move could originate from anyone inside our compound or at the “ruff-puff” camp just outside the gate, or from civilians nearby. But we knew without a doubt that as soon as our trucks left the gates, road watchers would report our progress, giving the VC advance notice of our approach.

The spies captured in Cai Lay on the day I was wounded were typical—young boys or old men and women, not fighting-age men. They were a species of rat that wanted us killed. We had been lucky thus far, not being ambushed, but I knew we were vulnerable in truck convoys, especially with a battalion so lax in security.

Late in February the 3d Battalion, our sister unit, was sent into the Double Y to search for new caches there. I always considered the region our personal hunting grounds and resented someone else going in our place. We had shed our blood there, and drawn the blood of our enemy. It was hallowed ground to us, ours to defend.

Upon arrival at the Double Y, the 3d Battalion found the cache sites we had discovered earlier; they were completely repaired and refilled with ammunition and weapons. The battalion followed our procedure for destroying and removing the enemy’s supplies. We knew the VC were tired of humping all that ammunition down the Ho Chi Minh Trail and through the Plain of Reeds to conceal it, only to have us come along time after time to blow it up.

This time the VC decided to deliver a message of their dissatisfaction. On its return to Binh Duc things changed dramatically for the 3d Battalion. The VC took action, using their spy network, for an assassination. As the truck convoy bounced home on Highway 4, a single man stepped from the side of the road directly in front of the truck carrying the ARVN battalion commander and U.S. senior advisor. In a reprisal assassination, the ARVN battalion commander was shot multiple times and killed, and the advisor was hit several times but was lucky enough to live. He was evacuated to the United States. Obviously the VC had plotted revenge while the 3d Battalion raided their supplies, and used their spies to trigger the ambush. I felt fortunate that another battalion had been sent in our place.

I also felt guilty.

VC ranks were decimated during their military failure in the Tet offensive and our combined counteroffensives. The Viet Cong was nearly destroyed as an effective fighting force and required augmentation from the North Vietnamese to reconstitute their units. Blood had been spilled all over a poor nation.

As March stormed in, monsoons followed with dark clouds and heavy rains. Monsoon rains seemed determined to wash away bad memories on both sides and bring in new supplies of clean water to replenish the land. Water was dumped from the heavens, washing away blood throughout the countryside and cities. Prevailing winds brought milder weather, along with fresh drinking water; both were welcomed by soldiers and peasants alike.

March was consumed with major operations using a combined task force of the ARVN 2d and 3d Infantry battalions and 32d Ranger Battalion, all under the control of the 11th Regiment. Aggressive Viet Cong activities reverted to pre-Tet tactics: make contact, delay, and withdraw under cover of darkness. We were mortared frequently in the evenings, so we knew they were still getting ammunition resupplies. Instead of staying in the Binh Duc compound, we spent nights on the ground in security positions and listening posts surrounding My Tho. The plan was simple: keep the VC farther away from the cities, out of mortar range.

Some nights we were fortunate to stay in our camp at Binh Duc. As monsoon deluges increased, rats of another kind moved inside our tin shelters from their underground burrows. A big rascal made a pilgrimage through my room after lights out, prowling along the two-by-four timber on the wall beside my bed. The beam was higher than my head and parallel to the top of my mosquito net. One night after finishing a well-worn paperback novel, I looked at the new place to stash it. I’d already decided to redirect the rat’s travels, so I had stacked several used books on the ledge. Then, in the dim light, I watched from my bunk as the rat began his usual expedition along the two-by-four.

Scampering along his normal route, the rodent bumped headfirst into the books, stopped, and looked about. Then, to my horror, he stepped off the ledge onto the top of my mosquito net—right over my face! The net sagged under his weight until his churning claws almost touched my nose. He clambered along the netting to get to the foot of the bed. All the while I prayed the netting would hold. I was afraid to move, even to breathe. As soon as he passed over, I quickly rolled out of bed and removed the books to give the beast full right of passage. I didn’t want a pet rat but I thought we could get along respectfully for a while. I didn’t surrender, I just compromised to live in peace.

On another wet night, our advisory team crossed through the barbed wire fence to meet our American friends in our sister battalion. The noncommissioned officers of that battalion’s team considered themselves card sharks and challenged our team to a poker game. Naturally we accepted the challenge. Our gracious, but confident hosts supplied plenty of beer and bourbon, accompanied by hors d’oeuvres of Spam and saltines. Within a couple of hours we were well into our game. One of the sergeants left to go to the latrine, and upon returning brought back a heavy case of C-rations.

“Come on. It’s your deal.”

“Hold your horses a minute. I want to cover this hole up.” He slid the case of rations across the concrete floor against the wall.

“What for? You got rats, too?”

“Yeah. A big one comes in every night.”

“Probably the same one that runs through our place.” I imagined that my pet rat had been making the rounds.

“Deal!”

An hour later we heard the C-ration case scraping over the sandy concrete, and we turned as one. Before us the largest wharf rat I had ever seen materialized behind the sliding box. He strolled into the center of the floor, looked us over, and blinked in the bright glow of the electric light bulb over our heads. No one twitched a finger while he sauntered across the room and out the back door. I laid my cards on the table, finished my Jim Beam, and went home to my little rat. I left money on the table. Once you’ve seen one rat, you have not necessarily seen them all.

I had been in the field for eight months, which exceeded my obligatory six months of field time. I was ordered to report as an assistant G-3 operations officer in the tactical operations center in April, following overdue R&R at the end of March. I was to transfer my meager belongings from our camp to the Seminary before I left. Reluctantly I complied with my orders.

It seemed my days on the forward edges of life were drawing to an end. I knew I was fortunate to have survived the previous eight months. My nerves were battered, but nevertheless I was reluctant to leave the rats I knew for the unknown variety living in the Seminary. I should have been joyful at leaving combat for a vacation followed by a job away from enemy fire, but I was not. I didn’t want to leave my friends in 2d battalion. And I was depressed from having lost my friend Kiem, by O’Malley’s death, by the shot-up Vietnamese lieutenant in the foxhole during Tet—and by the war. The glorious adventure I’d imagined had become a losing proposition in every respect. I didn’t see victory anywhere in sight, so I left for R&R, seeking only blessed relief.

Fresh casualty figures show that number of Americans killed and wounded in Vietnam has now passed the total casualties in the Korean War.