Dearest Sandy,
I think of a million things I want to tell you during the day, but when I sit down to write, it all seems to slip away. But I never forget how much I love you and need you.
—Richard
February–March 1971
Life, love, and money can slip through your fingers without leaving any evidence that they’d previously existed.
In late February the 7th Cavalry CP moved to Aries from Green. In its first life, Aries had been made infamous by a CBS television special about pot smoking in Vietnam. Moving command and control is always risky because communications are tenuous at best. But old fire bases are never pleasant to reopen. When a unit leaves all its trash is buried in old bunkers and resurfaces during reconstruction. The only advantage to reopening an old base is that the clearing in the jungle already exists. Flying restrictions, due to a constrained budget to fight the war, limited our supply of building materials. Consequently we used chain saws to cut raw timber from the surrounding jungle to construct overhead protection.
I shared a sleeping bunker with Lt. Tommy Adams, the assistant S-3. He did most of the digging, while I manned the tactical operations center for both of us. One could say rank has its privileges, but Adams preferred to work outside. So did I.
Accidents continued to happen and were of great concern to all commanders: the accidents seemed especially tragic in the waning phase of the conflict. Since automatic ambushes had racked up a poor safety record, Spry instituted a policy that none could be established without first getting his permission. I don’t think he intended to deny any, only to issue a safety reminder with each approval.
Daylight faded, bringing darkness earlier in the jungle than on the open fire base. The battalion commander was aboard the C-and C helicopter when it went to Bien Hoa for refueling. Aries was in its normal state of disorganization when the Alpha Company commander radioed, requesting to speak with Spry. As the senior officer on the fire base, I was summoned to the operations center from digging duty.
Alpha Six, this is Two, " I answered his call.
“Two, this is Alpha Six. We’re on a very hot trail and I want to set up an ambush before dark.”
“Alpha Six, you know the policy. Wait till Big Six returns or is back in range of the radio.”
“How long will that take?” He was clearly impatient.
“I don’t know. They had to refuel at Bien Hoa; maybe another half-hour till they’re back in range.”
“That’s too long. It’s nearly dark now. Can’t you approve it?”
I sensed his frustration. “Six hasn’t delegated that authority.”
“Look, this is important. This trail is hot and there aren’t any good guys around here. What happens if I just do it?” We had reverted into our peer-to-peer relationship.
“I don’t recommend it.” I kept the mike open a moment while I thought. “But … in this case, Six would probably want me to approve it for him. Go ahead and set it up, but be careful. Our butts are in this together. I’ll take responsibility for approval here, but you’re still responsible for safety!”
“Roger. I owe you one. Out.”
Alpha’s string of recent accidents had triggered the new approval policy. I felt justified in approving it, but I was uncomfortable with the company’s safety record. Nevertheless I made the decision, true to my man-on-the-ground principle. I logged my approval into the operations journal and worked on another intelligence assessment Spry had requested, leaving the digging to Adams. When Spry returned after dark I briefed him on the special report he had assigned, but I forgot about the ambush.
I was awake early next morning, when Alpha Company reported that the 3d Platoon’s ambush had been sprung. A patrol searched the site. I was apprehensive, remembering that I’d logged the incident into the journal but had not briefed Spry. When I told him, he was unconcerned and agreed with my decision. The ends justified the means, and in this case more than usual. Alpha reported killing five NVA and capturing packs and weapons. We quickly dispatched a chopper to recover the booty.
Dearest Dick,
I thought I’d better write while Scottie is sleeping. He awoke last night at 3:30 and threw up all over the place, so he is back on the hypoallergenic milk. It costs twice as much as the other, but if that’s what it takes to keep him well, it’s worth it.
The phone bill came in today—$68.00—your call was $48.00 plus tax. I didn’t think we talked that long. If you should call again we’ll have to time it—that is really high, although I loved every minute of it.
Love.
As soon as the chopper arrived at Aries, I directed that everything be brought to the briefing tent; I had a table and chairs set up to search the packs for any useful intelligence. I examined the rifles first, four AK-47s and an M1 carbine, but they were standard with nothing remarkable except damage from the ambush. All the rifles were still loaded, so I cleared them myself, remembering another intelligence officer who had carelessly shot me with a captured AK-47.
I eagerly turned my attention to the packs. They were tan canvas bags and smelled strongly of sweat, dried blood, and fish oil. The packs were the grungiest I had ever seen, and I didn’t relish rummaging through them. It was apparent the Alpha troopers had not bothered with them, either.
I methodically emptied the contents, piece by piece, looking for documents. Food and ammunition were on top; dirty, sweaty clothes were next, along with a few letters and documents. I examined each item, spreading the contents on the folding table as I went. Near the bottom of the last pack I found three mysterious bundles. Each was about the size of a brick, two the same size and one slightly smaller than the others. All three were wrapped tightly in brown paper, taped shut, and tied with string. Each bore Vietnamese inscriptions on the corners. I was unable to read them but I knew I was holding something important and I was curious what it was.
My excitement rose as I saved the special packages for last. I studied them carefully, since I didn’t want to damage the inscriptions when I opened them. My curiosity peaked as I hesitated, taking a big breath before unlocking the mystery.
I examined the exterior of the packages a final time. I concentrated first on the smaller of the bundles, finding a corner and carefully tearing the end away. My hand trembled, but when I saw inside the tear I sat the package down like a hot potato. I breathed heavily as I stared at a green “50" in disbelief. It was something familiar. I was seeing, but not believing, a U.S. S50 bill. It was a stack of $50 bills as large as a brick, a thousand of them.
Never had I held so much money in my hands. There I was, alone in a tent in a jungle with $50,000 in cash in my hands. No living person knew I had it. The NVA couriers were dead. The company that had recovered the money had failed to search the packs. No one was in the tent nor had there been any curiosity about what was in the packs. With my heart pounding, I tore a corner of one of the larger packages to reveal Vietnamese currency in large denominations, totaling 500,000 paper piasters and one 50-piaster coin in each bundle. It totaled over a million piasters, worth about $40,000, and $50,000 in cash: $90,000. With shaking hands, I stuffed the three bundles back into the pack and out of sight.
I paced in circles around the tent for several minutes, trying to grasp the magnitude of the situation. I jammed my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking, breathed deeply and wrestled with my conscience over what to do. I wondered whether I could keep the money and somehow get it out of Vietnam. But would I? Could I really do it? It was not mine, but it was no one else’s, either! Sandy needed money then—but it still wasn’t mine to keep. On the other hand, it was the spoils of war.
I continued to pace, mentally going back and forth. I slowly regained control of my breathing, and my heart rate slowed. I casually walked to the sides of the tent and lowered the flaps, leaving only the door open. I hesitated in the door a moment, and then called for Colonel Spry. Several people ran to investigate, but I waved them away—I wanted to see only the battalion commander.
As Spry approached the tent, he wore an expression that indicated he knew I had found something important. An inquisitive smile tickled his lips when he asked what I had found. I reached into one pack and removed the package of U.S. currency. I showed him the exposed corner. His smile vanished; he turned pale and said only, “Don’t let anyone in here!” He rushed to the operations center to call Brigade. I assumed a guard position next to the packs, just inside the door, using a reloaded AK-47 to keep onlookers away. And I did have curious visitors. The smell of money was in the air!
A Huey landed at Aries in under an hour, spilling out the task force commander, the brigade commander, the task force finance officer, and a special security detail. Soon I watched the entourage fly off with “my” money. It was gone. Oh, how I could have used it! Sandy needed it, too. That money would have changed our lives.
Dearest Sandy,
My mom informed me that your mother died in the same hour that Scott was born. I’m so very sorry, Darling, and I really worry about you now. We have to take life and death together, because both are an integral part of each piece of humanity. It is sadly ironic that something as beautiful as birth obligates you to death.
Always.