“United States infantrymen rushed ashore from armored assault boats under heavy fire from a battalion of Viet Cong troops in the Mekong Delta. The enemy troops, crouching in rain-swept rice paddies, fired machine guns, automatic weapons, and recoilless rifles.”

—New York Times, September 16, 1967

6

Rude Awakening

August 31 - September 15, 1967

At “oh-dark-thirty,” we were jarred awake by the sounds of activity throughout Binh Duc compound. I heard Vietnamese voices everywhere, not panicked but in the tone of soldiers making hurried preparations to move, to launch an operation. As I rubbed heavy sleep from my eyes, Captain Hurst rushed from the bedroom in his skivvies to find out what the commotion was. In a moment he darted back and announced, “We’re going on an operation. We’ll get the details later, but we have to pack up and be ready to move.”

“Do you want me to wake the NCOs?” I asked.

“They’re already up.”

I had packed many rucksacks in the dark during training, but this time was different—because this was an actual combat operation. Training had officially ended! That sudden realization sent a chill shrieking from my neck to my feet. What I had learned in all the endless drills and lectures was all I had to take with me from this point forward. There was no way to call time out. Time raced past while dawn refused to break.

Captain Hurst called out his mental checklist as he made his final preparations. That was reassuring to me because I checked my own intuitions against his list to ensure that I didn’t commit a major error in my own preparations. I supposed he was doing this purposely and I appreciated his subtle but effective way of guiding me.

When we were satisfied with our packing, the four Americans walked together toward the battalion mess hall. I hoped to pick up a tray and walk through a line for coffee, eggs, bacon, grits and orange juice. Instead, we sat at a long table near Major Bouie, and a steward placed a bowl and pair of chopsticks before each of us. I watched as others scooped rice from a larger bowl into their smaller bowls, and I copied them. Then a steward passed along the table with a large pot, which was steaming hot and strongly aromatic. He dipped a ladle into the brew and drew a brown broth to spread atop our bowls of rice.

“Duck,” said Captain Hurst.

Fortunately I had practiced with chopsticks, so I managed to scoop some duck and rice into my mouth. Either the duck and rice were seasoned inadequately or the dish was naturally bland. The rice especially needed salt. Breakfast fell short of eggs and bacon but was an equally long way from the sliders in Saigon; however, it was not bad, if you were hungry enough. I hadn’t finished my bowl of rice and duck when Major Bouie stood and announced that the battalion would depart in fifteen minutes. Bouie left promptly, followed closely by the battalion staff. We lingered a few more minutes to stuff more breakfast into our mouths before we hurried to recover our rucksacks and rifles.

As we rushed out the door, an ARVN soldier handed each of us two small plastic bags, tied at the top. In the dim light, I couldn’t make out what was in the bags, but one was about the size of a grapefruit and was rubbery; the other was smaller and squishy. As we left the building and the light improved, I could see that the bags were “doggy bags,” or the ARVN version of a C-ration. The larger one was hard-packed, cooked white rice, and the other was leftover duck soup to pour over the rice later in the day. Afraid not to take either, I stuffed one bag in each of my shirt side pockets, not sure when I would see solid food again.

I realized that I didn’t know where we were going, how long we would be gone, or what we would do while we were there. The same ominous uncertainty that had fallen on me in my unceremonious arrival at the helipad in My Tho returned. I felt hijacked.

I strained to throw my heavy rucksack over my back, lift the puny carbine, and walk out into the street with the others. My legs were unsteady beneath the unaccustomed burden. Meanwhile ARVN soldiers were already loading the 2 1/2-ton trucks (“deuce and a halfs”) in a half-organized way. These trucks made up the junkiest fleet of transports I had ever seen.

“You and Rich take the same truck as the lead company commander. Mendenhall and I will follow Major Bouie,” Hurst told me. It was the shortest operations order I had ever received, and I didn’t feel very good about it. We ambled alongside the parked convoy of trucks until we saw Vietnamese 1st Lieutenant Vanh, the 2d Company commander, standing beside a truck near the head of the convoy.

I approached Vanh. “Sergeant Rich and I’ll ride in back, if you need us. Do you know where we’re going?” I asked.

Vahn looked right through me, not replying.

“Hey, sir. He doesn’t understand English,” interjected Rich.

All my language training escaped me. I wondered how we would communicate about simple matters, much less coordinate operations or fire support in an emergency. Vanh sat in the cab of the truck, and Sergeant Rich and I scrambled into the back with helping hands from obliging ARVN soldiers.

One truck was assigned per platoon, and with soldiers, rifles, packs, radios, and a few live chickens we were packed like living sardines in a can. There were no seats in the back of the truck bed, so everyone stood and held onto anything within reach, sometimes onto each other. I noticed that there were no sandbags in the bed of the truck either; I frequently prayed that we would not hit a land mine buried in the road.

As we rolled from the compound I still didn’t know where we were going. I yanked a map from the side pocket on my fatigue pants to trace our route as we moved along. The trucks rocked and rolled considerably on well-worn springs, and the rough road made it necessary to use both hands to hold on. The breeze felt good in our faces, but I knew I’d be unable to find myself on the map in an emergency. The sun was already hot as blazes by 8:00 a.m. I wondered what it would be like when it really got hot.

On our way out of the compound, we passed several outposts of “ruff-puff,” the Vietnamese Regional Forces (RF) and Popular Forces (PF), which were the equivalent of a militia. Under a collective term of territorial forces, the RF manned critical points like bridges, while the PF protected their hamlets and villages. Most of them were in the Mekong Delta, usually living with their families inside fortified outposts. They were a motley collection, but fond of waving as we passed in convoy. They always smiled because they knew the more operations we ran the less likely they were to be attacked. Actually, the ruff-puff would be a fairly easy target if the Viet Cong needed a quick victory, but the VC was generally loath to attack them because of their co-habitant families. The Viet Cong attempted to win the hearts and minds of the population—just as we did. This really was a popularity contest, after all.

After crossing a bridge over a wide canal, the trucks pulled to the side of the highway and rattled to a jerky stop. I expected the entire battalion to dismount and encircle the trucks in a protective perimeter. It did not. Instead, everyone stood there in the beds of the trucks like ducks in a shooting gallery. Meanwhile, Major Bouie and Captain Hurst disappeared into the ARVN 11th Regiment command post (CP) at Long Dinh. As he disappeared inside, Captain Hurst signaled me to follow him—almost as an afterthought. Rich and I jumped down from the truck and followed.

Inside, I met Maj. Cecil N. Neely, the 11th Regiment advisor. He shook our hands and graciously offered us some much-needed coffee, which was strong and very hot. I needed it after my early, rude awakening, even on a hot morning like this one. While we carefully sipped the steaming coffee, Neely explained that the VC had been blowing up bridges along Highway 4, and burying mines under the roadbed at night. The first vehicles on the road the next morning had set a mine off, blowing the vehicle to pieces along with the passengers, regardless of whether they were military or civilian. This practice tended to leave large holes in the highway, which had to be repaired, but not until the local population had been made aware of the success of the Viet Cong attack in the local area. Fear of these mines slowed the flow of rice to markets, which in turn had an adverse effect on the local economy. These activities had to be stopped. The briefing did nothing to reassure me about riding in the trucks.

A combined American-Vietnamese operation was commencing, generally along the highway, to protect the road itself and to push the VC back farther than ten kilometers in both directions. Mechanized infantry would patrol the highway in armored personnel carriers (APCs) supported by military police in wheeled French armored cars. Dismounted infantry would patrol the rice paddies, canals, and swamps ten kilometers on each side of the highway. Our mission was to find the VC troops and kill them, find and capture their mines, and gather information from the local population on VC locations and intentions. This operation was designed to disrupt the Viet Cong and regain the confidence of the population. The 2d Battalion was to patrol west of the district capital of Cai Lay.

Now I knew considerably more than I had when we’d left that morning, but I was still a bit vague about what my role would be on this mission. I could hear my mother asking the difficult question: “What will you be doing in Vietnam, son?”

We exchanged radio frequencies and were quickly gone from our exposed stationary positions in the back of the trucks, which lurched ahead to Cai Lay. We next halted in the center of the town. Major Bouie departed quickly to coordinate with the district chief, an ARVN lieutenant colonel. I was pleased to see the ARVN troops dismounting from the trucks, until I realized that they were not providing security, but instead, were buying cigarettes. They would purchase strong French cigarettes and touch a drop of green menthol onto the paper to give a cooling flavor; the cigarettes were instantly transformed into popular menthol-flavored Salems, minus filters.

As soon as Major Bouie returned the trucks jerked forward. Several ARVN soldiers sprinted to catch up, running to reach the rear of the trucks, and then were dragged on board. We surged ahead and continued to Binh Phu, a village composed of a series of small hamlets on a Mekong tributary just north of Highway 4. The noon sun seared us as we dismounted.

“You two stay close behind me for a couple of days,” Bobby advised Sergeant Rich and me. I knew he was concerned about me on my first operation, and Rich was also relatively new. I appreciated his sentiment, but I resented being assigned to a nursemaid.

Admittedly, the going was tough at first. The trail we followed was dry and clear, but my legs felt weak and wobbly. We were carrying heavy loads on our backs, and I actually had to learn to walk all over again in the rough terrain of the rice paddies and canal lines. I felt everyone watching to see if I fell. I knew Hurst was watching my every move; his critical eyes burned my neck as much as the hot sun. I was determined not to falter.

The entire area was laced with small canals and streams. This was a populated region; local citizens had erected bamboo-pole bridges over most of the waterways to cross the canals and streams without getting their feet wet. Bamboo bridges were narrower than the sole of a jungle boot and sagged as we crossed, one at a time. ARVN soldiers rushed ahead of Americans at the bridges, because our greater weight might break the weak bamboo poles, forcing them to wade the murky, filthy water. Many bridges did indeed break under my weight.

After thirty minutes of stop-and-go movement, the entire column suddenly dove behind the cover of rice paddy dikes, trees, or thatched hutches. I heard the crackle of rifle fire a hundred meters ahead, and winced as bullets ripped through trees overhead.

Major Bouie turned to us and simply said, “sniper.”

The shooter was a single Viet Cong sniper, intent on delaying our movement or just making a statement that we were not welcome.

As we pulled ourselves back up to our feet from behind the cover, Bobby Hurst came over to me and put his arm around my shoulder. “Congratulations,” he said. “You have just earned the Combat Infantry Badge.”

“This isn’t enough combat to qualify for that!” I protested.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.”You’re lucky to get it out of the way now. Next time might not be so easy.”

The rest of the afternoon amounted to a long walk in the sun without any more fire from the sniper. As dark approached, the battalion stopped in a village and established defenses for the night. The CP was in a thatched structure that appeared to be an empty rice barn. Hammocks were hung from wooden beams, and soon cooking fires began to emit the familiar aroma of fresh rice and duck. My appetite was raging, and the idea of rice and duck was more compelling now than it had been at breakfast. Finally, we were beckoned by Major Bouie to sit cross-legged around a straw mat on the floor. Night had fallen and darkness filled the barn; two small candles gave flickering light to our efforts to eat. Rice bowls were passed around, and we served ourselves with rice first and then chunky duck soup.

In the candlelight I was clumsy in picking up a large chunk of duck from my bowl with chopsticks. Hungry and not to be deterred, I grabbed the chunk with my fingers and raised it to my face. Candlelight glinted in his eye as I stared into the duck’s blank face. I was considerably more startled than the duck, and I went to bed hungry that night.

My first day in combat had begun with a rude awakening way to early, a horrible truck ride, and a single sniper hoping to shoot someone and run away. It had ended with a long walk in the sun and a duck’s head for dinner. I had a feeling that this was a preview of an entire year of my grand adventure. I wondered whether I should have joined the Peace Corps instead—or better yet, fled to Canada with Peggy. This war didn’t seem to be all it was touted to be. If this was all there was, I wondered what the hippies were protesting.

On the second day, Hurst, having seen that I was at least physically competent to keep up with the ARVN soldiers, released Rich and me to walk with the leading company commander. Finally I was in my rightful place. Nevertheless it remained impossible to give any meaningful advice to the Vietnamese: their English was limited, and my Vietnamese was worse. I seldom knew the concept of our operations, the enemy situation, or our mission, except as I could surmise on my own or when Bobby received a quick brief from Major Neely over the radio.

I strove to keep up with our location by following our movements on my map. All members of the team did the same, and we double-checked with each other frequently. I needed to know our exact location in the event we required an airstrike, or artillery, medical evacuation, or to escape and evade capture if the battalion was overrun. The Vietnamese company commanders took their instructions directly from their battalion commander over an old U.S. Army PRC-10 radio, which needed manual tuning. At least, U.S. advisors had the newer PRC-25 with preset frequency selections.

The next eight days were much like the first. The battalion continued to sweep through hamlets to establish a government presence in the villages near National Highway 4. The highway bombers and snipers lived in the hamlets we were moving through, but our numbers were such that we were seldom challenged directly. Occasionally, the highway was blown despite our efforts and those of the mechanized infantry patrolling it. The engineers, who bivouacked nearby, usually repaired the road quickly, but a stray Lambretta or M113 APC striking a land mine was not so easily reassembled. Neither were the unfortunate passengers, and having witnessed that, I began to realize that simple luck was involved in surviving these random violent incidents. Death was not planned but was completely indiscriminate.

Eventually, we moved back to the highway and the same old beat-up trucks met us for a trip back to Binh Duc. As soon as we arrived at the compound, the other advisors dropped their rucksacks on the floor, grabbed clean sets of jungle fatigues and shaving kits, and piled into our jalopy jeep. It was apparent to me that they had practiced this drill many times before. We rattled our way over the washboard road to the Seminary. Bobby drove, I rode shotgun and the two NCOs smiled broadly in the rear seat, with their carbines stuck out each side.

A hot, soapy shower and shave restored me to someone I remembered. I had already lost a few pounds, and my jungle boots were blessed with that rough brown color that scraped the greenness from my feet, leaving me marked as a seasoned field advisor. We enjoyed a hot, solid American meal and a couple of cold beers in the club later for dessert. I had not been there long enough for mail to catch up with me, but I did have time to drop off a few letters at the mailroom. I had written them earlier and carried them around in my helmet liner until I could mail them.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I made it safely to Vietnam, as you can see. I’ve been on my first operation. Officially, I am an advisor, but I can’t say that I have done any advising yet. I think my real job is simply liaison with the Vietnamese forces in the field. I really like the others on my advisory team and the Vietnamese, also. I’ll write as often as I can, and send some pictures or slides. Please keep them for me.

I hoped the letters would tell them enough, but not too much, about what I was experiencing. The thought of mail started my mind wandering again, and my thoughts naturally turned to Peggy. How many times had she been back to Vietnam? Where was she now? Had she met another soldier who eclipsed her memory of me? I was afraid that I was already history to her. How long before I would forget how she looked, or felt in my arms? I wanted so much to see her again, talk to her, kiss her. I just wanted to know that she was all right, and for her to know that I was, too.

Back at Binh Duc, time dragged. I was anxious to go back to the rice paddies. We shared paperback books, wrote letters, played rummy and dominoes with ARVN soldiers, and made trips to the U.S. Mobile Riverine Force base at Dong Tam to scrounge anything useful we could get our hands on. We usually carried trading materials with us to Dong Tam, such as Viet Cong flags or North Vietnamese Army (NVA) military equipment in exchange for sandbags, cement, or pierced steel planks to use in our bunker construction. If flags were in short supply, the battalion tailor could generate a few for a nominal price.

The highlight of this operational break was the arrival of “Slick,” the nickname Bobby assigned Captain Xuan, the new battalion executive officer. Slick was slightly chubby with a round face, but he spoke excellent English, having attended infantry training at Fort Benning, Georgia. He knew and appreciated Americans and recognized our place in the unit, which was enhanced significantly by his arrival. He was equally comfortable with either his native countrymen or his adopted Americans.

Slick often invited the U.S. advisors to join ARVN officers to play dominoes in the day room of our tin shack, including us socially in their activities. We might was well play with them because we were unlikely to get any sleep as long as the games raged on the other side of paper-thin walls. I often sat up until the early hours playing with Slick and the company commanders.

Aside from Slick, I got along best with Lieutenant Kiem: it helped that Kiem’s English-language skills were much better than either Lieutenant Vanh’s or Lieutenant Thanh’s. Kiem was a good-time guy who liked to joke and poke fun at anyone around him. We called him a cowboy. He was as outgoing in battle as he was in play. Kiem grew to be my best friend among the ARVN officers, other than my counterpart, Captain Xuan. When I was not with Slick, I sought out Kiem to take into the village for soup or iced coconut milk. We talked about the war, our families, and the United States. Kiem had an insatiable appetite for information on our country and clearly wanted to go to Fort Benning for training, following in Xuan’s footsteps.

Slick made these relationships possible; he encouraged and supported our inclusion in everything. Our spirits were buoyed by the arrival of this affable soldier, and our relations with our allies improved considerably. Real friendships were being forged here.

Prospects for this war were improving, after all.