Task Force Mathews, 24 May–12 June 1968, Kontum Province. Cambodia is west; Laos is north. From Headquarters Fourth Infantry Division, Combat After-Action Report, 13 June 1968, Vietnam Center and Archive, Texas Tech University.
Tet
The Unexpected Crossover
The night following the command shift, just after midnight, Lts. Tom Courtney and Jack Keane (a future general and vice chief of staff of the army) came to my tent. After Tom reported and he and Keane took a seat, Tom blurted, “Sir, Bravo 6 is dead!” Tom had tears in his eyes. Bravo 6 was Dick Boyd, a favorite of mine. Tom knew that and wanted me to hear about it firsthand. Boyd—always smiling and so full of life—was always cool under the greatest pressure. Although the details remained unclear, Boyd fell about an hour before, the victim of a single round. Even though in stand-down, the brigade still conducted security sweeps and still took casualties. Dick had spent about an hour and a half in my tent during the last stand-down discussing his future in the army, which I thought was bright. I inquired how they and the men of Company B took the loss of their well-liked and respected commanding officer. As expected, the troopers were stunned. I considered it fortunate they had a mature person like Courtney as the XO. It fell to him to assist the men in accepting one of the ugly realities of war. After bidding them good night, I climbed back into my cot. My mind raced from one memory to another about Dick and our many shared experiences.
I wrote an expressive letter to Dick’s parents. Later Dick’s father replied. Shortly after returning to the States, I called Mr. Boyd and asked to pay him a visit. He thanked me but said that he was not up to it. Several months later, I called again, and Mr. Boyd asked that I not come; he was heartbroken. All these many years later I cannot think of Dick without recalling the sorrow in his father’s voice.
Capt. Tom Mercer took command of the company the next day. He had big shoes to fill, but I had pegged him for company command from our first meeting and entertained no doubt he would measure up. I took advantage of a resupply flight to visit Bravo Company, still in the field but after Wheeler closed down. The men were shaken, but platoon leaders Lts. Ted Orvald and Bob Berry spoke very highly of Mercer. The company had gotten into a firefight immediately after Tom took command. Ted remarked that Mercer established a base of fire and maneuvered just like in a Fort Benning field problem.
I visited with as many troopers as possible during my one-hour stay. They were chastened by Boyd’s death but glad to see me. Bravo was not the same. It had only been a month, but the unit already had many new faces. The old hands wanted to know when I would come back to the battalion. I told them Danford was their commander and urged that they continue giving him their complete support. He was their commander and a good leader.
A couple of nights later, I decided to “eat out.” I called Bud Connett, the 2/502nd chaplain, and then went to Bravo Company to get Tom Courtney. As XO, Tom commanded the company rear. I knew Tom was in the dumps and needed a change. Two soldiers in his company had been killed that day, and Tom was on the way to identify the bodies in the morgue. Wanting to get Tom’s mind off his troubles, I insisted he join us. A leader can be emotionally involved with his soldiers but must not become so embroiled that it affects his performance. We stayed at the Navy Officers’ Club in Tam Ky for about an hour and a half before returning to our headquarters. We dropped Tom off in his area and then went to my tent. Bud stopped in to shoot the breeze. After about thirty minutes, I had a call from Tom. He said that Jim Smith (not his name), a young lieutenant, had a problem that Tom wanted me to discuss with Jim. I told Tom to come by and bring Smith with him.
Smith was in the rear area because he had a significant reaction from a bee sting. When Jim and Tom arrived, Bud left. Smith confessed he could not bring himself to kill and cited a couple of times when he had an enemy in his sights but shifted his aim on purpose. After expressing his feelings at some length, he said that he had considered suicide. A son of a Methodist preacher, he had not discussed his feelings prior to deployment. Before arriving “in country,” Smith had convinced himself that he could overcome his conscience and had been very proud when he earned the right to wear the crossed muskets insignia of the Infantryman. He said that he wanted to stay with the brigade even though he knew that he might be subjected to some verbal abuse.
Sympathizing with his feelings and believing it took real moral courage to say what he had just told me, I wanted him to discuss his problem with his battalion commander and see if Danforth could use him in his battalion. Jim said he knew that he had to discuss his problem with Danforth but wanted to talk to me first—I was still “the Ranger” to the battalion. We talked for more than an hour, during which time Tom and I convinced him that he should talk with Father Murphy or Father Connett, both outstanding chaplains. Murph might be the better choice since he was older and had been in Vietnam longer. I called Murph and then accompanied Jim to Murph’s tent. Then I went to see Dick Kupau, the S1. Dick knew of four jobs in the brigade that Jim could fill. We agreed that Jim could earn his pay, although we had some concern that a real “reluctance to kill” might become contagious. Next morning I discussed the problem with Collins, who commanded the brigade in Matheson’s absence (he was on R&R before moving to a job at division). He believed the danger too great and that Smith had to go. I then asked Kupau to contact Lt. Col. Bill Walby, G1 of our parent command, the Americal Division, if a slot existed for Smith. The brigade had been placed under the operational control of the Twenty-Third Infantry Division when Wheeler morphed into Wallowa back in October. Walby provided a solution. Smith had never shirked his duties or misbehaved before the enemy, but he needed to be taken off the line. Serendipitously, Jeannie sent me a clipping of one of Billy Graham’s columns discussing the mental and emotional conflict that people wrestle with when confronted with tough moral choices. I forwarded it to Smith, thinking the clipping would not resolve all the questions but might prove helpful. It would also let him know that he was not forgotten. Jim contacted me and expressed his appreciation and told me that he was contributing in his new job. We had removed Smith from a situation where his presence might have had a detrimental effect on his company and at the same time found a position in which he could still contribute to the brigade’s success.
Although I had not much pondered the morality of killing an enemy soldier, the thought had crossed my mind several times, particularly in Korea. Whenever the thought occurred, it was easily dismissed as just part of the soldier’s trade. Killing, never personal, was the necessary by-product of seeing the mission through to its successful completion. No matter the carnage wrought on the enemy, I never grew accustomed to seeing the enemy casualties strewn grotesquely about the battlefield.
Death haunts the soldier in many guises. Too often we lost people through avoidable mishaps. Fratricides occurred; one example was a returning patrol that failed to follow the normal challenge-and-password procedure and lost people to friendly fire. These types of casualties were products of stress and forgetting elementary training. You take young American boys and equip them with weapons and vehicles, and the result is casualties from accidents. But older men, including officers, were not exempt. One of our captains accidentally shot and killed a fellow officer in his bachelor officer quarters, another case of carelessness and failure to follow proper procedures. The grief-stricken young officer visited me several times. I consoled him in the hope of snapping him out of his depressed state. He became withdrawn and stopped attending the informal officer parties. He became a liability to himself and those serving under his command. I cautioned him about taking any unnecessary risks. I told him that if he got himself killed, I would feel responsible. Colonel Collins asked me about him. A few days later he died in combat, although without any indication that he took an unusual risk.
Unhappy Reunion with the Rest of the Screaming Eagles
As XO the biggest task involved trying to find something useful to do. The staff—Maj. Richard Kupau (S1), Maj. Ted Geesey (S2), Lt. Col. Bud Sydnor (S3), Maj. Jerry Scott (S4), and Maj. Wayne Prokup (S5–Civil Affairs)—worked together like a finely tuned engine. The special staff—the commander of headquarters and headquarters company, public information officer, provost marshal, the surgeon, and the chaplains—likewise required almost no supervision. I accompanied Iron Duke or Cottonmouth on a few visits to the field, but since I made no contribution, I stopped going, instead spending most of my time at brigade headquarters and with the supporting units.
One advantage of being on the brigade staff was the ability to see friends who visited our brigade. My old friend from Korea and Benning, John Vann, came by on three occasions. John had come up in the world. A disgruntled Vann had retired from the army after his celebrated tour as an advisor for a Vietnamese division—celebrated because his scathing criticism of the inadequacies of the Saigon government and ARVN received wide press reportage. Equally unhappy out of the army, he accepted a position that allowed him to return to Vietnam as pacification representative in the Agency for International Development. Before long, Vann took over direction of civilian pacification programs in all the provinces around Saigon. In May 1967, the Office of Civilian Operations that exercised jurisdiction over all American civilian agencies underwent reorganization, received a military chain of command, and a new impetus, as suggested by its new name, Civilian Operations and Revolutionary Development Support (CORDS). Pacification no longer would be reactive, and the head of CORDS, Robert Komer, pushed for and, against army opposition, got Vann as his deputy in charge of the pacification campaign in III Corps Zone. John now held the equivalent rank of a major general. Although Vann remained acerbic as always, he never launched into any assault on Westmoreland’s attrition strategy and multibattalion search-and-destroy operations. Mostly we talked about the old days. He looked very tired and worn. He urged me to extend and promised that I would get a brigade. I thanked him but said, “Nothing doing. I’m ready to go home.”
Wheeler, the largest operation of its type in 1967, began winding down in the middle of November. The brigade would redeploy to Phan Rang, its “home” in Vietnam. The 3/506th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR), our fourth battalion, preceded us, arriving “in country” as an intact unit—a real rarity in Vietnam. The 196th Infantry Brigade was moving into our area, and their support battalion was occupying our headquarters area. The commander of that battalion was Lt. Col. Frank Clarke, a West Point classmate of mine whom I had not seen since 1950, when we graduated from the Infantry School. The handover of responsibility for the area went smoothly.
Frank’s mess hall assumed responsibility for feeding my troops. One morning, Frank’s mess sergeant came to me apologizing because breakfast had been late. I assured him that it was of no consequence and that I appreciated what he was doing for us. He then told me that some of my troopers had launched a night raid and cut down the cooks’ tent on top of them as they slept. The cooks were so frightened they ran away and had not been seen since because they had heard so much about airborne soldiers. After issuing blanket apologies including to Clarke, I wanted to place the culprits on “C” Rations and put them to work for Frank’s first sergeant until we left the area. At the same time, I understood their prank—and that nobody gave up the names of the perpetrators—reflected the esprit de corps of airborne troopers and their contempt for “legs” (troopers wore their khakis and green trousers tucked in and bloused as opposed to “straight-legs,” or nonjumpers).
We completed the move to Phan Rang in time for a four-day Thanksgiving stand-down. Around the same time, word arrived of my selection for promotion to colonel (number 761 on the list). The papers probably would not come through until July or August. Although I was pleased at being selected, it did not seem particularly important at the time.
The brigade did not have much time to adjust to its new surroundings. We drew responsibility for performing another search-and-destroy operation about sixty miles west of Phan Rang, in the highlands around Bảo Lôc. Intelligence indicated the area served as an enemy staging zone. Operation Klamath Falls, the last staged by the brigade as a separate command, was set to open on 27 November. Just as the jumping-off date arrived, Lt. Col. Bob Yerks, the commander of the 2/327th, and his XO, Maj. Jim Waldeck, ended up in the hospital with food poisoning. Collins placed me in temporary command of the battalion. With no time to spare, I explained to each company commander the reason for the hasty change, stressing that Yerks would return as soon as he recovered.
We moved to Bảo Lôc on 30 November. The flight proved interesting. The highlands appeared much different from the coastal area I just left: a famous tea-growing region, it was more prosperous and less densely populated, the fields were well kept, and the houses larger and supplied with power lines. The pilot lost his bearings and started flying in circles. When he flew over the town, I borrowed his chart and had him oriented in about fifteen minutes and we landed safely. At three thousand feet, Bảo Lôc at least provided a break from the heat of the coast.
The battalion bivouacked in Bảo Lôc with the 2/502 immediately adjacent. I threw some of its troopers for a loop when I responded to their “Strike Force” greeting with “No Slack,” the slogan of the 2/327. They did not know about the temporary command shift. Lt. Col. Paul Mueller, the senior provincial advisor, put on a briefing for us. A member of the same cadet company at West Point, Mueller had been a classmate at Carlisle.
The two battalions staged out of Bảo Lôc with the 2/327 area of operations halfway between Phan Thist, on the coast south of Phan Rang, and Bảo Lôc. The assault did not proceed according to script. Although in Vietnam for months, because of rotations, the Tenth Aviation Battalion had very few personnel experienced in conducting an operation of this size. The flight schedule went through a series of alterations that created confusion that caused slippages in the scheduled lifts. Consequently, the air support hit the area two hours before the insertion, and we had no artillery prep. Fortunately, the assaulting troops met no resistance.
Little else went right with Klamath Falls. Once again the intelligence proved flawed, out-of-date, or had been compromised. Our sweeps uncovered little evidence of an enemy buildup and made only sporadic contacts with local force units. After about ten days in a “black hole,” we were extracted. Yerks resumed command as soon as the battalion returned from the field, and I went back to brigade headquarters. I welcomed the opportunity to work with the 2/327th, and during the stand-down the battalion officers invited me to a small gathering and presented me with a plaque commemorating my brief command of the battalion
When the rest of the 101st completed its movement to Vietnam, the “Always First” Brigade would revert to division control. None of us were happy losing our “separate” status and the freedom it afforded while under what amounted to the titular command of Task Force Oregon and the Americal Division. Jealous of their deserved reputation as members of the finest brigade in the army, many of the brigade staff made no secret of their feelings. I decided to reel them in before the situation got out of hand. At the next day’s afternoon briefings, I heard the usual snide remarks. As Matheson and Collins left the briefing tent, I told the staff to remain behind.
Mounting the podium, I told the staff that I understood that we would rather maintain our separate brigade status, together with our own combat team composed of all the support that we needed. The brigade had established an unparalleled working relationship among the staff and commanders. We not only functioned well together but liked and respected each other. But I reminded them we belonged to the 101st Airborne Division. Not only was it unprofessional to criticize division, its commander and staff, but it demoralized our subordinates and set a bad example for our troopers. In a stern voice I told them criticisms of higher headquarters would terminate as of that moment and dismissed them. My admonition must have worked because carping and faultfinding ended.
Some things did change under division control. For starters, Matheson left us, replaced by Collins. The staff respected Collins but missed the Iron Duke. Coordination with supporting units never ran as smoothly. In future, brigade operations would be supported by whatever assets division assigned. Naturally plenty of areas of friction developed, and morale suffered. My self-esteem took a dip because the command shift had no bearing on my position.
Maj. Gen. Olinto Mark Barsanti commanded the division. Barsanti, the son of immigrants and a mustang (worked his way up the ranks), might have been the most decorated officer in the army. He now held the plumiest appointment as commander of the 101st. An original Ranger and the youngest battalion commander in World War II, he assembled an outstanding record in Korea and in all the right staff assignments. Barsanti was a force of nature who possessed a mercurial temper. He probably bore no love for West Pointers and definitely had a chip on his shoulder against the First Brigade.
While the First Brigade won laurels in Vietnam, the rest of the division had been constantly bled of its best airborne personnel. Because of the rotation rules, officers and men with combat experience in Vietnam bore no obligation to return. The division also provided replacements for the heavy casualties suffered by the First Brigade and the 173rd Airborne Brigade. In particular, the division lacked its quota of officers and especially experienced NCOs. Most of the replacements funneling into Fort Campbell were the products of recent training cycles, not airborne-qualified men. Virtually every member of the First Brigade wore the Combat Infantryman Badge, in sharp contrast to men in the Second and Third Brigades.
My first contact with the general proved memorable. As XO, it fell to me to escort Barsanti on his first visit to the brigade. We proceeded to the center of the area where some Vietnamese were filling sandbags to revet the Tactical Operations Center. He asked where we had obtained the civilians. I began, “Sir, we usually….” With that he exploded and berated me for all he was worth. Barsanti informed me in no uncertain terms that the First Brigade was not the only unit that had any combat experience. The eruption went on for what seemed forever; when he finally finished, he immediately became placid and we continued on our walk through the brigade area as if nothing had happened. Obviously, my “we usually” hit a raw nerve. His tirade took place in full view of enlisted men; Barsanti got his message across loud and clear.
December meant my time for R&R (rest and relaxation) had arrived. I needed a break. The rotation system deservedly drew much criticism, but after six months in Vietnam, the time and the rapid tempo of operations all seemed to meld. Emotionally, I needed some downtime and the opportunity to see Jeannie. We met in Hawaii. Aside from doing the normal tourist things—like taking sightseeing drives on Oahu—we chiefly sat on the beach and relaxed. Because of my ears, I could not even get into the water. One day we sat beside a lady from the mainland. When Jeannie mentioned my pending return to Vietnam, the lady asked in all seriousness, “My dear, are you going with him?” That told me all I needed to know about how much the public knew about conditions in Vietnam. Jeannie was concerned about my safety, but our time together seemed to allay many of her fears.
Returning to Vietnam required some mental gymnastics. Not long after, just before Christmas, I received instructions to report to Cam Ranh Bay for a special decoration ceremony. President Johnson, making his second and last tour of Vietnam, wanted to meet with the troops and pin on some medals. About two dozen of us stood there in ascending rank of award—DSCs and Silver Stars. Johnson, accompanied by Westmoreland, talked about his Silver Star in World War II. What pleased me most was that I saw Maj. Gen. Hank Schweiter, who had been a colonel in special operations in the Pentagon, my boss, in the stands. I had always admired him and the way he conducted himself, and I was pleased he witnessed the ceremony.
In most respects, matters continued as before under the new command structure. As the only operational reserve, the division reverted to “fire brigade” status. In our first operation under Barsanti’s command, the First Brigade acted independently, with two ARVN battalions and Special Forces attached, in far-distant Phuoc Long and Quang Duc Provinces, on the Cambodian border astride the II and III Corps Zone boundaries.
Operation San Angelo, conducted much of the time in abandoned rubber plantations, was intended to prevent infiltration of manpower and materiel across the border during the Tet truce. By the middle of January, the San Angelo task force was in place and began conducting sweeps. Even though an ARVN battalion had been roughly handled by a NVA regiment at Son Be in Phoug Long as recently as October, our units again made only rare contacts. Given that not much was going on in our sector and with the beginning of the holiday truce, Collins decided the time was right to take some R&R. He flew off for Hawaii and left me in command of the brigade. The date was 29 January 1968, two days before the NVA/VC launched their Tet Offensive.
Light at the End of the Tunnel
As 1967 drew to a close, all indications pointed to headway being made. Westmoreland told the president the end was in sight; the crossover had been accomplished, and the NVA remained under control and the VC were on the run. The bombing campaign of the North began to bite. The revolving door government in Saigon appeared stable; voting was held under a new constitution for the National Assembly and Gen. Nguyễn Văn Thiệu’s election as president. The Phoenix Program, dedicated to eliminating the enemy’s leadership, gained momentum; CORDS reported 68 percent of the population under Saigon’s control. The leadership in Hanoi came to a similar conclusion; they could not win a war of attrition. Just before New Year, the North signaled their willingness to open diplomatic negotiations. It was a diversion, as was the request for the cease-fire during the Tet celebration of the lunar new year. Hanoi was not looking for a settlement; rather, it had decided to go for broke, launching a massive offensive on South Vietnamese cities designed to hammer ARVN, inflict casualties on American forces, spur the peasants into open rebellion, and topple the Saigon government.
The Tet Offensive represented a colossal American intelligence failure. Since major American forces had deployed in Vietnam, U.S. Military Assistance Command, Vietnam (MACV) had tried to force the enemy to fight our kind of war and persisted in conducting more than one thousand battalion-level search-and-destroy operations. Despite the general’s rosy claims, with a half million troops “in country,” we achieved a stalemate. The frontier battles—Dak To, Con Thien, and the massive buildup around Khe Sanh—convinced Westmoreland the enemy was prepared to go to Phase III, conventional warfare; and he decided it would center in the northern two provinces. Half the American maneuver battalions were deployed there (including the Second Brigade, moved to the vicinity of Hue, in I Corps Area). MACV was not entirely wrong; the NVA/VC were poised to come out and fight, but nobody knew in what strength and that their center of gravity lay in the heavily populated coastal areas, not the borders and at Khe Sanh. Just after midnight on 30 January 1968 they hit Saigon, thirty-six provincial capitals, and sixty-four of the 242 district towns in addition to multiple fixed positions and airfields.
Barsanti wanted San Angelo closed down, and the brigade moved with dispatch to Biên Hòa, which housed division headquarters, in the northern environs of Saigon. Already on 1 February, elements of my old battalion had been rushed by air and engaged in heavy fighting for Ton Son Nhut airport and around MACV headquarters. Our headquarters was tasked to begin the movement of the rest of the brigade no later than 3 February. Barsanti and several of his staff arrived at headquarters in Song Be. I escorted him and his entourage to the tent, where the brigade operations officer, Maj. Othar Shalikashvili (brother of the future chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff), stood by to deliver the briefing. Shali, one of the sharpest officers I have ever known, enjoyed that same reputation with both commanders and staff. We expected everything to go smoothly.
Shali began, and after completing a two-minute introduction said, “Sir, we recommend….” Barsanti exploded and launched into one of his patented harangues, while Shali stood stiffly at attention on the stage. I sat uneasily beside the general. When the tempest subsided, Shali proceeded. Almost immediately, Barsanti went off again. The depth of Barsanti’s belligerence was more than an old “brown shoe” general tearing into a junior staff officer. When the storm did not abate, I mounted the stage, took the pointer from Shali, and stood at attention by him. When Barsanti’s wrath subsided, I told Shali to take a seat. Given my track record, the chances of me pouring oil on the flames stood pretty high: “Sir, what Major Shalikashvili was presenting were my recommendations to you for your employment of this brigade.” Without pause, I continued, “If you will listen to me, I will go over those recommendations. You will see that they support your concept for the division.” I proceeded, and the general remained silent. When I finished, he said very calmly, “Come down and take a seat,” indicating the one I had vacated.
In the next ten minutes—it seemed much longer—he told me how he operated. He said that he listened to his commanders and staff and took care of them. He mentioned that Col. Larry Mowery had recently been awarded the Silver Star. The general was completely at ease and spoke calmly and softly. I could not fathom his intent any more than I could his command style, unless this was Barsanti taking a page out of Patton’s playbook. The general and his staff departed, evidently agreeing with my proposals. The artillery commander called me aside and complimented me on my defense of Shali and for defusing an explosive situation.
Sydnor, who left the brigade staff to command a battalion in the 327th, confronted a real problem. Because of poor flying weather, the uncertain security situation around Biên Hòa airbase, and the lack of availability of overstretched transport aviation, Sydnor could not complete his move before the day ended. After careful consideration, I instructed him to reverse his movement and return his deployed elements to their original position. I was not going to be caught with a battalion Tactical Operations Center split into two locations. It was my call, and Bud happily concurred.
I immediately radioed division, and Barsanti got on the radio. In his usual manner, he began to raise hell and ordered me to “Relieve Sydnor.” I told the general several times I had given the order to Sydnor to reverse his movement. Barsanti would have none of that; I am not sure he ever heard what I told him. Finally, I said, “Yes, Sir!” That ended the conversation. I flew to Sydnor’s location and pulled him aside. Bud was obviously distressed when I related what had transpired. With a smile on my face, I relieved and immediately reinstated him. We shook hands, and I promised him all the support that I could muster and departed. I guessed correctly that the general would let the episode pass. Sydnor continued as battalion commander, and nothing was ever mentioned about the incident. Needless to say, I was immensely relieved when Collins returned.
By the time the brigade arrived and deployed, the intensity of the fighting around Biên Hòa had slackened. Now the job centered on sealing the approaches to the capital district and destroying Communist forces attempting to withdraw from the built-up areas. Although we received alerts of impending enemy actions and nerves remained raw as terrorist incidents in the city continued, basically we settled into the familiar pattern of setting up cordons and conducting security sweeps. With the threat to Saigon removed, the brigade returned to Phan Rang for some rest and relaxation.
The respite proved short-lived. On 14 February, we loaded on air transport for a flight to the new division headquarters, Camp Eagle, a few miles south of Hue, and then an overnight shift into the A Shau Valley, located in Thua Thien Province, I Corps Area. The battle to regain Hue, under way since the NVA raised their flag over the citadel on 31 January, had approached its climax as the battalions moved into their areas of operation. The brigade’s mission involved sealing the A Shau Valley, the chief infiltration route adjacent to the Ho Chi Minh Trail and the Laotian border, along Highway 547, denying the enemy the ability to move reinforcements and supplies into the fight for Hue. Conducting sweeps on either side of the highway, the brigade made contact with stay-behind-parties but no large enemy units. Once Hue was secured, the forces in I Corps Zone concentrated on writing off as many of the exposed enemy as possible as they pulled back into their mountain sanctuaries (Operation Carentan I). The First Brigade remained in place blocking the escape routes until 31 March, when Carentan moved into its second phase. Higher command ordered two brigades of the First Cavalry Division to launch air assaults into the heart of the A Shau (Operation Delaware). The brigade, pulled from Carentan II, now became the blocking force for the First Cavalry Division but shifted its front, now moving west down Highways 547 and 547A into the mouth of the valley.
Other than overseeing administration and logistics and backstopping the commanding officer, I almost felt left out as XO. Whenever a general or brigade commander visited our headquarters, I stole a couple minutes and asked him for another command. Several responded, “You have already had your battalion. I need to look after my own men.” The army’s personnel policy—making sure battalion commands were widely distributed—took precedence over placing officers with experience in combat units. To keep myself busy and improve the unit’s readiness when the next command shift transpired, I enlisted the aid of Kupau and began recording best practices and putting together a manual on administrative, supply, and tactical procedures. When commanders and staff rotate at any level, the incoming team usually starts cold. Practical experience may be the best teacher, but it is often very expensive in lives and combat efficiency. We gathered input from others and completed the document, but whether it served any purpose remained a question. I would not be around to see.
In spring 1968, vacancies opened in two battalions: one in the Third Brigade commanded by Colonel Mowery and another in Col. John Cushman’s First Brigade. Collins gave me the choice, and I picked Mowery’s without giving it much thought. Cushman had a reputation of being hard to get along with. I knew and liked Mowery from serving together in the Infantry Branch in the Pentagon and considered him a highly competent officer.
At my request, Collins held a small ceremony in a jungle clearing attended only by a color guard. Collins also arranged a small send-off in his mess. “The Ranger wants another command,” he remarked, “although he doesn’t need one.” As far as having my battalion commander chit, he was right, but from my perspective, for my professional development, there remained much to learn. After enduring all that time feeling worthless as XO, I needed that command for my peace of mind. Although unjustified, my sentiments were real.
The “Bastard Battalion”
On 9 April 1968, I traded assignments with Lt. Col. Enzo Klinner and assumed command of the 1/506 “Currahees.” The Third Brigade resembled the old First Brigade in that it was designated as the “fire brigade” under II Field Forces command—at least in theory. As a result of Tet, II Field Force oversaw all the combined assets of American elements—including three divisions—deployed in and around Saigon. My arrival coincided with the opening of Operation Toan Thang, which translated as Complete Victory. The mission: drive all remaining NVA/VC troops from the III Corps Area and the capital district and complete the destruction of company-and battalion-sized enemy units before they withdrew into their safe havens. Since Tet, Third Brigade had moved from one OPCON (operational control) assignment to another, eventually in four corps zones. When I caught up with them, the brigade held a static defensive position in coastal Gia Dinh Province, south and east of Saigon, in IV Corps Area under operational control of the Ninth Infantry Division.
The First Battalion held a ring of sandbagged bunkers surrounding a village. Gia Dinh is in the Saigon River delta. Flat as a pool table, the heavily populated and intensely cultivated area was segmented by tidal estuaries, rivers, and innumerable canals. The brigade’s role centered on guarding the southern approaches to Saigon, but it struck me as odd that an airborne battalion’s combat power was expended providing security for a village having no discernible military value. I soon discovered the Third Brigade did a lot differently.
After the change of command ceremony, I walked the perimeter by myself. In the first dugout, I happened upon a trooper sitting on top of the bunker in his skivvies reading a magazine. As I stood in front of him, he passed a glance my way and resumed his reading. I introduced myself as his battalion commander and required him to come to attention. In response to my questions, he replied he was manning the bunker. When asked about the whereabouts of his weapon, he replied he kept his rifle in the barracks because it saved him from cleaning it. When I pointed out the village had recently come under rocket and small-arms fire, he assured me that if that happened he would return to the barracks to retrieve his rifle. Here stood a soldier in my battalion who saw nothing unusual about being on perimeter security without his rifle. I instructed that he return to the barracks, get into uniform, and return with his weapon. Proceeding to the next bunker, the same sight greeted me. I never chewed out either of these soldiers because they bore no blame if their superiors shirked their leadership responsibilities. Officers set the benchmarks; junior officers and NCOs rise to or fall below basic requirements based on the standards set by their commanding officer.
Returning to the barracks area, I called the company commanders together. I clearly, specifically, calmly recounted what had transpired and then made clear my expectations. End of meeting. I made no threats; that was not my style. The next day’s inspection of the defenses revealed the same story. I reassembled the company commanders, pointed out the lack of improvement, and explained I would not tolerate any more slackness. Several of them were thinking about applying for Regular Army status so I told them about my experience in the Pentagon selecting reserve officers for commissioning. “I do not like making threats,” I said, “but if you do not correct immediately the shortcomings I have enumerated, I will relieve you from command.” I assured them they could forget about getting a regular commission or making major. Things did improve but grudgingly and not quickly enough.
I found it hard to believe the difference between my old unit and this battalion. The 1/506 also had a number of instances of soldiers sleeping on guard, an unpardonable, and potentially deadly, breach. I appointed my executive officer as trial council, and he won every case, which was not difficult since an official record, signed by a duty officer, existed describing each violation. The number of cases provided yet further proof that the battalion suffered from a very real discipline problem. The officers and NCOs in the 502nd knew their business and performed. But they were all volunteers, many of them had returned to Vietnam from prior tours, and they were proud bearers of the airborne tradition. The officers, NCOs, and enlisted men of the Currahees, despite the unit’s proud history, exhibited no esprit de corps. Most were the scraping of training facilities in the States. The replacements that filtered in came from the same category. The Third Brigade had never completed its in-country training before being loaded on copters and receiving their baptism of fire during Tet in the fighting around the Biên Hòa air base. Their second deployment, thirty-six hours later, took them to Phuoc Long Province in the Central Highlands, where they saw bitter street-to-street fighting at Song Be. Toward the end of March they returned to performing security operations for the air base before shifting south of Saigon into their static role in the Delta. Whereas Strike Force relished their “fire brigade” role, the Currahees called themselves the “bastard battalion”; they were nomads who moved from pillar to post without much rhyme or reason. Determined to change this state of affairs, I put the men to work improving the defenses, strengthening some of the bunkers and building others that covered routes of approach. Mowery, on one visit, told me that we would soon assume a more active role. I hoped morale and discipline would improve once these men ended their static role.
Intelligence indicated the enemy was engaged in a buildup in preparation for a second offensive against Saigon-Cholon. The brigade’s mission shifted to interdicting and blocking the flow of enemy supplies by cutting infiltration routes that converged in neighboring Long An Province. The brigade operations officer briefed the assembled brigade staff, my staff, and me on the new mission. I requested the normal tactical air, artillery, gunship support that preceded every First Brigade assault. The S3 said that the prep would be planned but not fired unless we faced opposition. I was incredulous and expressed my disapproval. “Why not fire the prep just in case?” I asked. “It’s only ammunition. Why not do everything reasonable to protect the troops as they make the landing?” The S3 said that Third Brigade policy called for fire preps only if needed. I responded quietly and firmly, “My battalion won’t go unless we have the prep.” Taken aback, the S3 said he needed to check with Mowery. The expected confrontation never happened. Mowery said, “Give Ranger what he wants.” We got the prep, and firing preparations became part of the standing operating procedures for the brigade, at least for the 1/506. The change was well received in the battalion.
The Third Brigade routinely extracted the patrolling troops every day. Companies, inserted at dawn and extracted early in the afternoon, had less opportunity to find and eliminate the enemy and were more exposed to attacks while being pulled out, always a potentially dangerous operation. I briefed the brigade S3, informing him my battalion would employ the First Brigade method and remain in the bush for several days with resupply every five days. The surprised S3 again went to Mowery, who again approved. Mowery knew I was not trying to upstage him, and he merely wanted to tap into the First Brigade’s experience.
For once, intelligence proved correct. During the early-morning hours of May Day, the Communists opened the second phase of the Tet Offensive. The brigade conducted a series of reconnaissances-in-force, Eagle Flights to fix enemy positions, sweeps seeking enemy camps and supply caches, night ambush patrols, and airmobile assaults against targets of opportunity—all designed to intercept and destroy the enemy units before they reached Saigon. We began experiencing heavy contacts. Mowery gave me a free hand to fight my battalion. Instead of crashing through the bush in company-size formations, making enough noise to alert any enemy within miles, the units operated in small groups. Instead of always fighting the enemy on his terms, we began to locate him and initiate actions. The only time the elements united was for resupply. Another ambush trick I picked up involved prepositioning a platoon along trails leading to the extraction landing zone. The company, minus the platoon, would pull out as normal. The enemy, attracted by the incoming helicopters, typically sent in troops—our men always left behind what they considered excess baggage—to forage. The concealed platoon then tripped the ambush.
At that time I had a rifle company from another battalion under my operational control. The company was commanded by an exceptionally sharp first lieutenant. I selected him for the ambush mission and gave him a day to plan it. He came back with a well-conceived design. When he finished his briefing, I congratulated him and wished him good luck. He stood on the platform for a moment and then blurted, “Sir, aren’t you going to tell me how to do it?” “No.” I responded. “You’re the company commander. You know your company and more about commanding it than I will ever know. You have an excellent plan. I will ensure that you have all the support you could possibly need. I have complete confidence in you.”
It worked like a charm. Shortly after dark, the enemy in platoon strength approached the landing zone, and the unseen operational control platoon opened fire and killed approximately eight enemy. When Mowery received the report, he immediately ordered his Charlie Charlie fired up and invited me to accompany him. We flew over the platoon and radioed congratulations to the company commander, who had stayed with his platoon. Mowery called this technique “bushmaster.” The company walked back to base the next morning. During the debriefing, the young officer did not attempt to cover his elation. He and his company had performed perfectly. As the young lieutenant said goodbye, he remarked, “Sir, I hope you’ll ask for me again. I like working in your battalion. You don’t tell me what to do.” I thanked him again and wished him well.
Not long after I had taken command, my outstanding battalion communications officer, Capt. John “Jay” Hendrix, told me that he had applied for a transfer from the Signal Corps to Infantry and wanted command of a rifle company. I promised him he would have the next company that came open. Mowery, demonstrating the typical operator’s dismissal of the support branches, took a dim view of the suggestion. “Ralph,” he asked, “have you lost your mind? Hendrix is Signal Corps!” True, Hendrix lacked any of the Infantry background required of a rifle company commander. Not deflected, I expressed my complete confidence in Hendrix—which had nothing to do with him being a Georgian who had gone to Georgia Tech—and the conviction he could more than handle the assignment. Mowery, as always, supported my decision. When a vacancy appeared, Hendrix got his company. My instincts proved on the mark; Jay earned two Silver Stars in Vietnam and ended his career as a four-star general and commander of U.S. Army Forces Command (FORSCOM).
After heavy contact one night, Hendrix returned with his company from one of his early forays into the jungle. As the company entered our battalion area, I told Jay that General Westmoreland was visiting and that I had invited him to speak to the company. Flabbergasted and visibly upset, Jay blurted, “Sir, we’re filthy. We can’t let the general see us looking like this!” I dismissed his concerns, telling him the general wanted to meet troops fresh from an action and that it would provide a big morale boost for the troops to speak to and shake the hand of the commanding general, himself a former commander of the Screaming Eagles. Assuring Hendrix I would take any flak—and expecting none—I told him to assemble about twenty of his soldiers.
The meeting was memorable; the troops were grubby after five days in the bush. I was proud of Jay and his troopers. When Westmoreland approached, in his starched and creased fatigues, I reported and explained that these troopers had just come in from a sweep and the night before had engaged the enemy in a hot firefight. Westmoreland went from trooper to trooper asking questions and commenting briefly. In one exchange, a soldier said that he had been wounded by a punji stake. The general turned to Mowery and said, “We don’t give Purple Hearts for punji stake wounds, do we?” I never knew the policy but as Westmoreland continued down the line, I remarked quietly, “Don’t worry, son. If there is any problem with your Purple Heart, you can have one of mine.” A seemingly pleased General Westmoreland bid us good-bye and left.
My XO informed me that Hendrix had recommended that I be awarded a medal for some recent action. The event had something to do with directing my helicopter into a hot area; I felt that no medal was deserved. If anybody merited a medal, it was the pilot. While appreciative of Hendrix’s sentiment, I worried the citation might cause Jeannie undue concern about my taking unnecessary risks. No recommendation was submitted.
Toward the end of May, MACV selected the brigade to take part in a major operation in the Central Highlands. Intelligence indicated large concentrations of NVA in the triborder region in Kontum Province. To preserve security, we received no briefing, and all division patches were removed from the uniforms and unit markings from the helicopters. On 24 May, the brigade completed its movement in C-130 transports to Dak Tek Special Forces Camp in western Kontum Province, where we passed under the operational control of the Fourth Division. The landings took place on a cold landing zone because our twin unit, the First Brigade of the Fourth ID, had been inserted the day before against no opposition. Over the next three days the brigade conducted a reconnaissance-in-force and detected nothing. The enemy had evidently withdrawn into Laos and Cambodia. The next day, 28 May, the brigade airlifted to Dak To.
The enemy used the same “rope-a-dope” technique they had employed in Phase I of Tet. The NVA units that moved into Kontum Province prompted the movement of American strength from populated centers—their objectives—into a black hole in the border regions. The day after we arrived, the NVA/VC unleashed Mini Tet against Saigon. For the next two weeks, the brigade conducted a series of fruitless operations to locate the enemy. It rained the entire time, with drizzle and low fog in the mornings giving way to heavy downpours in the afternoon. We humped up steeply sloped and rugged mountains and through double- and triple-canopied rainforests and never saw an enemy soldier. The entire brigade captured a grand total of four small-arms weapons; my battalion captured none. We had a single casualty and that was obviously noncombat. Operation Mathews was scrubbed on 8 June, and the other two battalions began their redeployment.
The airborne troops were leaving the area, but the NVA stayed. Although organized in conventional battalions, regiments, and divisions, the NVA could readily break down into squads and platoons and operate as guerrillas, avoid detection, and withdraw under pressure into their sanctuaries and with amazing speed reconstitute themselves, fully capable of executing relatively large-scale missions. This is what happened here. On 10 June, they launched a battalion-size assault against the Dak Pek camp. For the next forty-eight hours the area was pounded by artillery and the largest concentration of Arclight attacks to date. After the B-52s finished, my battalion mounted a reconnaissance and pursuit operation. Again the enemy had melted away. The survey of bomb damage revealed destroyed bunkers but no bodies or weapons; there was no demonstrable return for the massive investment of firepower. The next day Task Force Mathews was deactivated, and the battalion boarded C-130s for Biên Hòa.
Task Force Mathews, 24 May–12 June 1968, Kontum Province. Cambodia is west; Laos is north. From Headquarters Fourth Infantry Division, Combat After-Action Report, 13 June 1968, Vietnam Center and Archive, Texas Tech University.
Even before the other two battalions could unpack their gear, orders came instructing them to move about thirty miles from the Phouc Vinh base camp to Cu Chi. The brigade now fell under the operational control of the Twenty-Fifth Infantry Division. When I went to the headquarters of the Twenty-Fifth ID brigade we were replacing, the commander barely acknowledged my presence. Looking around, I saw Lt. Col. Gordon Sumner, the artillery liaison officer whom I had first met in Task Force Dolvin in Korea. Later I attended a staff meeting of the battalion holding the area we were assigned. The battalion S3 issued instructions to each company. He went into minute detail specifying what trails to follow, almost yard by yard. Accustomed to our battalion’s procedures that delegated responsibility, I was confounded. Obviously line Infantry did things differently.
Be that as it may, once our battalion moved into our designated area of operations, I never had any face-to-face contact with any member of the Twenty-Fifth Division. About a third of the division held security positions. Initially placed in this role, we went immediately into the bush. The enemy had been launching nightly rocket attacks; our mission centered on suppressing the fire coming from a ridge overlooking a village. We believed that aggressive patrolling might keep the enemy off balance and prevent or inhibit their rocket attacks. The S3 developed a plan that gave each of our companies an area of operation and a general direction of movement. How each unit accomplished its mission was left to its immediate commander. That had always been my policy. Almost at once, one company surprised and eliminated a small enemy detachment as it prepared to fire some five-inch rockets. The enemy rocketing ceased.
After Mini Tet, the new Toan Thang directive called for active search-and-destroy missions to upset the enemy’s plans for a third stage of their offensive expected in late July. At first operations centered on the sparsely populated Tay Nihn Province and War Zone C, often searching what had been the vast Michelin rubber plantations. When that proved unavailing—producing only infrequent skirmishes with scattered platoon-sized elements of local forces—operations moved into the western part of Nau Ngnia Province, hard on the Cambodian border. The hunting was better in the heavy undergrowth and dense bamboo thickets along the Oriental River. On 21 June, Company A ran into a VC base camp. The brigade conducted the standard “pile on” operation. Mowery inserted two companies from our sister battalion, the 3/187th, as a blocking force. Then the combat area received heavy doses of artillery fire and air support. The heavy firefight continued into the night before the remnant of the VC company infiltrated through the cordon.
Two days later the recon platoon discovered and seized a lightly defended guerrilla complex. Exploring the underground labyrinth, they found an ammunition cache and vast stores of rice. Destruction or extraction of the rice would be a significant blow to the effectiveness of the NVA or main force VC operating in that area. We received orders to destroy it and were given Engineer support. During the day, orders arrived to expedite the process and withdraw. I objected, saying that the Engineers had not completed their preparations. The order stood: “Move out.” The rice remained where we found it.
Thinking this offered the perfect scenario for a bushmaster ambush, I asked for and received the green light. I briefed the company commander, stressing the importance of the stay-behind platoon getting into the defensive position before the rest of the company was extracted. The platoon members must remain totally silent, not smoke, and remain hidden before the company left the landing zone and until any enemy appeared. Without total secrecy, the ambush would fail. I talked to the platoon leader, stressing this vital element. Preparation for the demolition was a lengthy process. The extraction went off without any difficulties. Within a few minutes, I heard the platoon leader’s panicky voice, reporting that he was under fire. I immediately called for artillery to seal off the area, thinking that the platoon had come under heavy attack. After much back and forth, I learned that the enemy consisted of a single rifleman. He had not fallen for bushmaster and had already inflicted several casualties, more when the platoon tried to recover its wounded without first suppressing the enemy’s fire. Finally, the lone Vietnamese withdrew, and we pulled out our beaten platoon.
After interviewing the platoon leader, the company commander, and first sergeant, it became obvious the platoon leader had violated my specific instructions concerning concealment. Instead of getting into his hole and hunkering down, he had sat on the lip smoking a cigarette and talking to his troops. That lone enemy, having spotted the platoon leader, waited until the last chopper departed and took the exposed men under fire, inflicting his first casualties. As other troopers tried to rescue their downed comrades, they, in turn, became casualties. The platoon leader had failed miserably, causing the needless death of some of his men. The platoon had been beaten by a single enemy soldier who deserved the enemy’s equivalent of a Silver Star.
Saddened and bitterly disappointed, I believed the platoon leader should be relieved and reassigned but did not communicate that to his company commander. I again questioned the company commander and first sergeant, focusing on determining if they thought that members of the platoon trusted their leader. Without hesitation, they assured me the men still respected and had confidence in the platoon leader. Although finding it hard to believe, I concurred with the company commander’s recommendation not to relieve the platoon leader.
The Big R
Happily my tour was coming to a close. Mowery informed me that I would receive a Silver Star as part of the package each battalion commander received when he left Vietnam. I balked, telling him I had done nothing to deserve it. He tried convincing me the award was merited, but I refused, saying a Bronze Star would be more appropriate. Mowery never gave up insisting, and I always demurred. I ended up with the Bronze Star.
Obviously I would have been honored receiving the award, but my whole experience with the Third Brigade left me feeling empty. Leaving one unit and joining another is always difficult. The army manpower system viewed American soldiers as interchangeable parts. Moving from one brigade to another in the same division should not have presented a problem. In my case, it did. I never established any connection with the Currahees; at least from my perspective, there was no sense of being a member of any “band of brothers.” In Strike Force, the troops returning to base were greeted with barbeques and beer parties that rebuilt unit cohesion and morale after the rigors of being in the bush. Nothing like that happened with the Currahees. The frenetic pace of the operations and bouncing from the delta to the highlands to the rice paddies and thick hedgerows around Cu Chi and finally the jungles of the Oriental River—always under the operational control of a different division—left the battalion fighting its own little war. Moving from one area of operation to another for short periods of time for specific operations—almost always black holes—undermined our combat effectiveness and morale. Unfamiliarity with the terrain and the enemy—even our own parent organization—multiplied the problem. The sad Operation Mathews affair seriously eroded faith in the senior leadership. I never knew what the other battalions were doing. Much of my personal sense of alienation derived from not having shared in the heat of battle with any company in the 1/506. My efforts never slackened; my companies always had all the support they needed, but I never felt that unique bond that comes from the shared exhilaration and mortal fear of being together in a life-or-death firefight.
An old friend, Lt. Col. Dan Sharp, replaced me. Dan had just come from an Office of Personnel Operations desk in the Pentagon. He arrived a week or so before the change of command date and accompanied me on a few air assaults. I remember one well. The 1/506 T/O&E (table of organization and equipment) called for four rifle companies—one more than in the 2/502. For this operation, I had a company under my operational control from another battalion. In the midst of a battalion insertion, with portions of companies on the landing zones, at the departure airstrip, or in the air, I received a call from Mowery ordering me to move my assaults to a new area. Amazed, I responded, “We’re in the midst of an insertion!” Mowery knew that and, ignoring the frustrated tone of my voice, repeated his instructions. I gave him a WILCO (understand and will comply) and proceeded with the change.
Word went down to the aviation support commander and my company commanders, and the operations officer coordinated the fire support. When the new mission came off without a hitch, Dan appeared nonplussed. After all the companies had been inserted and we had landed, Dan remarked, shaking his head, “Ralph, I’ll never be able to do all of that.” I reassured him that he could and like me in my first air assault, he needed to rely on his operations chief: “Dan, we could do what we just did because we have been doing it over and over again. We have SOPs [standing operating procedures] that we follow. All the supporting arms—particularly the aviation and fire support—are real pros. All they need is to be told what you want them to do, and they will do it.” I also stressed that we had good troops who could and always did perform.
As time for my Big R (rotation out of Vietnam) neared, I felt no particular apprehension; I had no short-timer’s concern about not making it to the end of my tour. Physically tired and emotionally drained, I speculated on how our soldiers in World War II served “for the duration and six months.” Some were separated from family and home for two or three years. I wondered about the Vietnamese we were fighting, away from home for years and years with no contact—mail, telephone calls, or whatever—with family. I marveled at their perseverance.
Although all departures are filled with mixed emotions, I was glad to be leaving. I missed my family so much. The pangs of separation—missing what my children were doing—troubled me more than any concerns about not going home. I labored under no doubt that Jeannie would do a wonderful job seeing to it that life remained as normal as it could be for children whose father was away in a combat zone. Her letters and tapes arrived every few days, filling me in on the happy times; whatever problems she confronted, she kept to herself.
Once the paperwork was cleared at Third Brigade, I made a courtesy call on General Barsanti. Although I was uneasy about it, the meeting went off without mishap. Lt. Col. Jerry Morse commanded the processing station. After six months in battalion command in the First Brigade, Jerry had been transferred to this job. We knew each other from Leavenworth, where we had played basketball during the lunch hour. Jerry met me with a warm bear hug, spoke glowingly of our time together, and escorted me to my billet. I remained there a couple days before catching that “7-O-Quick” (Boeing 707) back to what was termed “the World.”
Sitting alone on that dark plane during the interminable Pacific crossing gave me plenty of time for reflection. As time passed, I became more dejected. Leaving Vietnam left me with a hollow feeling. I had a job to do and did it. Service in Vietnam profited me enormously from a professional standpoint. Except for a brief time on staff, I was lucky to have been afforded the opportunity to command two battalions and, briefly, a third. Aside from personal sentiments, the experience left me dubious about the prospects of winning in Vietnam. Westmoreland’s unfortunate forecast about the light at the end of the tunnel inflated the impact of Tet. The North Vietnamese and especially the Viet Cong took a pasting, and their hoped-for “general uprising” never materialized, but though nobody saw it at the time, Tet proved to be the enemy’s Saratoga, the tipping point in the war. Operation Mathews demonstrated the bankruptcy of the “killing flies with a sledgehammer” faith that ever-more firepower, bombs, napalm, and Agent Orange would win the day. The army had lost its way and needed to return its focus to old-fashioned soldiering. To make matters worse, I was headed for a job I did not want. That aside, the best thing was that I was returning to Jeannie and the kids.
