Operation Bolo: The "Special Mission"

C-130A-II spy plane, similar to the Silver Dawn C-130B-IIs

Kevin Critzer: CJ, I just got this forwarded to me from a service friend. Pretty unusual and very classified operation with a very high rate of success. 

[As published in "War is Boring"]

"Spies Helped the USAF Shoot Down a Third of North Vietnam’s MiG-21s.  The American pilots had to keep the NSA in the dark."

On Jan. 2, 1967, around 30 U.S. Air Force F-4 Phantom fighter jets flying from Ubon in Thailand shot down a full third of North Vietnam’s MiG-21s—for a loss of just one of their own.
It was a strategic victory in an air war that had been going poorly for American forces.

And now newly-declassified documents reveal that this complex mission—Operation Bolo—couldn’t have succeeded without significant help from the signal-snooping Air Force Security Service.

And to avoid a squabbles over scarce intel resources, the Op Bolo units had to keep the National Security Agency in the dark.

The operation—originally known simply as the “special mission”—had a hard time getting approved in the first place. By the end of 1966, both sides in the bitter war had lost just a few aircraft in air-to-air combat over North Vietnam, rendering a dramatic aerial sweep unnecessary.

In almost two years of air strikes, the Pentagon had lost only 10 planes to enemy MiGs. American fliers had themselves scored fewer than 30 aerial kills.

On top of this, Washington was worried about drawing countries including the Soviet Union and China into the conflict—a distinct possibility considering that Soviet and Chinese advisers were working with Hanoi’s air force.

The rules of engagement forbade American pilots from attacking Hanoi’s airfields for fear of killing foreign advisers.

Knowing all of this, the Vietnamese People’s Air Force adopted new tactics for harassing its larger and vastly more powerful American enemy.

The MiGs would zip through flights of less nimble fighter-bombers just long enough to scare American crews into ditching their bombs or extra fuel tanks. Afterwards, the North Vietnamese pilots would often speed back to their bases—safe from their opponents—without even firing a shot.

The U.S. Air Force’s Seventh Air Force, which controlled most of the service’s operations in Southeast Asia, was soon fed up with this dynamic. So the unit’s commanders proposed an elaborate ambush aimed at whittling down Hanoi’s fighter jets.

Col. Robin Olds & his F-4C Phantom fighter jet.

Seventh Air Force chose the famous Robin Olds—then a colonel in charge of the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing in Thailand—to lead the American strike force.

To lure out the North Vietnamese, American F-4s would fly the same routes into the country as the heavyset F-105 bombers—and at the same altitudes and speeds while using the same radio call signs.

But another key—and previously unknown—element of the top secret plan involved deploying signal-snooping aircraft to keep track of the MiGs. The special C-130B-IIs would listen in on enemy radio chatter and feed information straight to American pilots throughout the mission, according to a just-released historical study.

Olds wanted to be alerted if things weren’t working out so he could “turn around and lead the force home rather than expose it for no purpose,” the official document explains.

With timely information, the task force could also try to cut off the MiGs from their bases if “the North Vietnamese suddenly figured out what was going on and wanted no part of it.”

But the secret spy planes in question were tangled up in a serious bureaucratic mess. While technically Air Force property, the special C-130s fell under the control of the National Security Agency, which could refuse to loan them out for the mission.

NSA officials had objected to sending the aerial spooks—which flew under the codename Silver Dawn—on regular military operations. With fewer than 20 modified Hercules flying worldwide, the NSA probably worried these sort of day-to-day requirements would impede its own intelligence-gathering.

To alleviate these concerns, Pacific Air Forces tacitly approved a novel idea. Up and down the chain of command, everyone would simply cut the NSA out of the loop.

In any event, the flying branch’s commanders in the Pacific felt that the existing Silver Dawn mandate justified sending the C-130s to help out with Operation Bolo, anyway.

Intelligence specialists were already using radio chatter that the Silver Dawn planes scooped up to figure out how many fighter jets Hanoi had on hand and where the aircraft were located, according to separate documents the NSA released recently.

The Air Force’s Pacific headquarters “seemed to feel that [Seventh Air Force] was responsible for fighting the war in whatever way was necessary.” But if the spy agency did find out, PACAF would “play down any prior knowledge of Silver Dawn involvement or deviation from normal operation,” the special history notes.

The 6922nd Security Wing, which provided the intelligence personnel to operate the C-130s’ special gear, also refused to be a part the final planning process—in order to shield itself from any repercussions.

Maj. John Chaueteur, who acted as a go-between for the Seventh Air Force and the Air Force Security Service, was most concerned about going behind the NSA’s back. Chaueteur was in the uncomfortable position of effectively being ordered not to do his job.

“Chaueteur gets ‘clobbered’ every time he uses NSA as a reason for not doing something that [Seventh Air Force] wants done,” the Air Force monograph quotes another official as saying.

Chaueteur was so worried about being reprimanded or relieved that he ordered the head of the Silver Dawn project to destroy evidence of any messages concerning Operation Bolo.

To help keep up this ruse-within-a-ruse, the bulk of the task force was told that normal EC-121 radar planes were supplying updates on the MiGs during the operation. This misinformation would also prevent the North Vietnamese pilots from thinking anything was amiss.

When Operation Bolo finally kicked off, two Silver Dawn C-130s were already orbiting in the Gulf of Tonkin, scanning the airwaves. Vietnamese, Russian, Chinese and Korean linguists were all at their posts.

These specialized personnel not only made sure the Vietnamese were responding as expected, but also kept watch in case Chinese jets decided to join the battle. Olds wanted to know if Russian or North Korean advisers were actually in the cockpits when the fighting started.

The operation turned out to be a major success for the U.S. Hanoi’s pilots were caught completely off guard.

When Olds’ strike team started its attack, the C-130s picked up enemy pilots shocked to find that “the sky is full of F-4s,” according to the declassified report. “Where are the F-105s? You briefed us to expect F-105s!”

“I’d like to come down now,” another Vietnamese pilot reportedly declared.

Seven MiG-21s fell to Earth. The Pentagon had estimated Hanoi possessed between 20 and 25 of the jet interceptors before the secret op.

The NSA doesn’t appear to have been aware, at the time, that the Air Force had appropriated its aircraft. We couldn’t find out what happened to Chaueteur, but Olds earned a promotion to brigadier general the following year.

After a series of additional aerial ambushes, the Vietnamese People’s Air Force grounded its MiGs and completely revised its procedures. At the end of the year, Washington approved strikes on Hanoi’s air bases.

By 1973, American airmen had scored 137 confirmed air-to-air kills against their North Vietnamese adversaries.


“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you want to share. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history.

Fire Base Kathryn: RVN April 1970

Fire Base Kathryn, Vietnam War

by Byron Edgington

I’ll never forget my first girl. I’ll never forget Kathryn, either. Kathryn—the name of a fire base in northern I-Corps in the Republic of Vietnam.

The stated mission that day was to put troops on her mountaintop crag. The real mission was to educate me, a brand new Warrant Officer pilot, on the professionalism and capability of my ‘enemy,’ the North Vietnamese.

April 10th 1970. Chief Warrant Officer Ray Woods was company flight lead that day. I was a new guy, “Still pissing stateside water,” as John Lipski, my left seater, said. 

Our string of Hueys laced across the sky in a circle, like charms on a bracelet. We were waiting for the artillery prep to end, so we could land on LZ Kathryn, dump our grunts, and go home.

In the twenty-four ship formation, I tried to ignore my place in the lineup. I was right-seater in bird number thirteen. Lipski and I followed the twelve Hueys in front of us like so many sheep in a line. Careful to avoid the artillery trajectory, the GT line, Woody kept his flight a mile north of Kathryn.

Round after heavy artillery round pummeled the fire base. Its cratered surface, mangled tree stumps, and arid ground resembled a brown blister festering atop the mountain. Artillery had pounded the fire base all night, before the mission. 

It was nine a.m., and still we circled, twenty-four Hueys cutting holes in the sky, turning jet fuel into noise over northern I-Corps.

We were waiting for Willie Pete, two final rounds of White Phosphorus. When the twin marking rounds of WP popped above the fire base, their presence marked the end of the artillery prep. Only then could we land.

Minutes dragged on. We circled. Radio silence. Watching shell after shell explode atop that ridge, I couldn’t imagine anything alive up there. I almost felt sorry for the bad guys, the ones the intel people told us were there waiting for us to land. Surely, I thought, they’d all be killed, or run off. Nobody could survive that massive bombardment.

But, I was a rookie, about to learn an important lesson. I was about to see how resilient the enemy was ...

At nine-ten a.m., only a few minutes late, two ghostly clouds appeared a hundred feet above LZ Kathryn like twin thought balloons. Willie Pete; the arty prep was done. John slid his visor down and locked his shoulder harness. “Okay, guys,” he said. “Let’s go to work.”

In the rear of the cabin, the crew chief and door gunner sat up, alert. Crew chief on the left, door gunner right, they cinched their monkey straps tight and swiveled the business end of their .30 cals up. 

“Ready in the rear, sir,” they said in unison. 

As the gunners’ weapons came up and their charging rods clattered, the grunts stirred. Five GIs flicked cigarettes out. Their M-16s banged against the floor of the Huey as they adjusted their backpacks. Time for them to go to work, too.

Woody’s ship angled off, aiming toward Kathryn, and lined up for landing. Two Cobra gunships slid into position near the lead Huey, one left; one right. The Cobras would escort Woody, as he neared the LZ, then they’d break off. Together, the three aircraft flew toward Kathryn’s ragged shell-shot surface.

Woody called his approach. “Thirty seconds out,” he said.

I watched from my aircraft, a mile behind, twelve UH-1's ahead of me.

“Short final,” Woody said, the rattle and pop of Cobra suppressive fire and his crew’s sixties barking in his radio call.

Woody’s Huey touched down on Kathryn and men streamed onto the fire base. Then a radio call that chilled my arms. Woody screamed into the ether. “Taking fire,” he yelled. “On the fire base. My gunner’s hit. He may be dead.”

John looked across the cockpit, and shook his head. “Son of a bitch.”

After an all-night bombardment, a pummeling no one could possibly have survived, an enemy soldier had leapt into the open on Kathryn and shot Woody’s door gunner. And the man was indeed dead, killed instantly. 

It’s gonna be a long year, I thought.

Our turn. John steered the Huey toward Kathryn’s landing spot. I watched the gauges, called out readings. “Torque’s good; rpm’s good.” I focused inside the cockpit, from fright, or denial, I’m not sure. 

I’ll never forget my first girl. But I don’t remember landing on Kathryn. Before I knew it, the Huey was empty and John had lifted off. 

We took no fire, no hits. Still, what I’d seen gave me a lot of respect for the enemy. That respect helped keep me alive in Vietnam, that and a simple rule: never underestimate the North Vietnamese.

Byron Edgington

Byron Edgington

The SkyWriter

Website
Blog
Byron's Book

Other Articles by Byron Edgington:

Bob Hope: Christmas 1970, Camp Eagle
History/Archival Sites for Vietnam Vets
Vietnam: Arriving at the Truth
Do Guns Equal Safety?
Laotian Rescue Mission
Ho Chi Minh
Terror and Hilarity
A Return to Vietnam
The War That Will Not Let Us Rest
War: A Waste of Youth
The Right Seat is the Wrong Seat
Jim, Frank, and The Snake
Smokey, The Alcoholic Pup

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

The Inner Battle of War

by CJ Heck

The following question has brought a mountain of varied responses since its April 3, 2016  posting on Memoirs From Nam:  "Do You Still Think About Vietnam?

The article has now received several thousand responses from Vietnam Veteran groups in LinkedIn, Facebook, and Google+.  Those comments have run the gamut, from outright indignation, to soulful thoughts of helping others.

The original article was written by a Vietnam veteran, who chose to remain anonymous. He felt it was important for people to understand why he cannot, NOT think about Vietnam. He will always think about Vietnam -- and the war.

For a soldier, war wounds.  It wounds the body.  It wounds the mind.  It also wounds the soul, but the soul does not condemn, or judge us. It is only our own ego which judges and condemns.  Our soul becomes wounded anytime we are called on to do things that go against our natural conscience, which is our soul's sense of right and wrong.

We also have our unnatural conscience.  This comes from mom and dad, schools, society, and in the case of the soldier, the government and military.  When we go against our unnatural conscience, we learn there are consequences.  It starts in childhood and follows us through life: if we lie, mom and dad will ground us; if we cheat on a test, we will fail the course; if we steal, we will go to jail. For the soldier, if you don't shoot the enemy first, you will be killed.

These learned consequences are paid through those who taught them to us: mom and dad, school, society, and the government and military.  They do not damn the soul; however, they do wound the soul
through our natural conscience, our soul's sense of right and wrong. When this happens, the ego strives to make us pay, and it does this by using guilt.

The soldier is called on to do things that go against his natural conscience, which is the soul's sense of right and wrong. the ego takes control.  It tries to make him pay by using guilt over a long period of time, sometimes for an entire lifetime.

When our body has a wound, it heals itself. The soul is much the same. When we do things to help others heal their soul, we also slowly heal ours, as well.  We are taking the attention off of our individual judgment, or the judgment of our ego, and we begin to open our hearts by service to another.  

We are meant to serve one another.   We are all one soul, all Brothers and Sisters, worldwide.

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

Agent Orange: The Whole Story

Barrels of Agent Orange

by Frank Fox

After I came home from Vietnam, I worked for many years in the Environmental Health and Safety field.

While I was there, the puzzle finally came together ...

Back in the 60’s, companies made some fairly potent chemicals. 

That being said, what was lacking at these production sites was any documentation about it’s effects on humans -- by that, I mean there was no information available to give to workers who handled the chemicals, or for the public who sold them.  

That was pretty much the state of Safety in those days -- make it and then sell it. Once sold, it was up to the purchaser to use it as he wished. 

The company I worked for made the Herbicide 2,4,5-T, which was also known as Agent Orange. Monsanto and Dow originally made these herbicides (weed killers) for agricultural weed control and sold it around the world. It was a great herbicide -- and it was very effective.

During the Vietnam War, the DoD put the word out that it would be great if there was something available to defoliate the thick canopied jungles of Vietnam. 

Dow and Monsanto were looking for sales, so they said, "We have something."  There was a demand and they made it.  There were no questions asked, as to how it would be used.  They just filled the shipments for their newest customer -- Uncle Sam.

Agent Orange (Herbicide Orange) was only one of the herbicides and defoliants used by the U.S. military as part of its herbicidal warfare program, Operation Ranch Hand, during the Vietnam War from 1961 to 1967. For that, a mixture of equal parts of two herbicides, 2,4,5-T and 2,4-D was used.

The 2,4,5-T was shipped in bulk containers (55 gallon orange-striped drums, hence the name agent orange). The drums had no hazard handling labels, nor did the military train anyone on it’s safe handling, cautions, and proper use of PPE (personal protective equipment) while handling it. Back then, there were no cautionary measures taken, because it was not known that any were necessary.

As to the application of the chemicals, the military leadership was not yet aware of the environmental impact. To them, if a little worked good, then lets slap it on really thick to work even better.  Uncle Sam wasn’t in the chemical business and they didn’t know. 

It was probably one of those good ideas likely thought up by McNamara’s think tank.  Down the line, there was an order from above to handle, load, and disperse it until it could be seen as working in the jungles.

Applying Agent Orange

The pictures you may have seen of the military loading planes, or helicopters, with 2,4,5-T always showed G.I's stripped to the waist with no safety equipment, (suits, masks, or rubber gloves), and many were smoking cigarettes.

They got it all over them and on their smokes and they just puffed away as usual. 

There were no mandatory showers taken after handling the herbicide -- they may not have showered for days after.

The stuff is still toxic in the soil today. 

Impatient military leadership probably thought the action would be instant, but when it didn’t defoliate overnight, they likely hit it again and all the while, with unsafe handling.

Because it was happening in a land far away from the U.S., there was no alarm, nor monitoring. They just kept painting the jungle with it -- as well as animals, U.S. troops, and civilians. 

Now, of course, anything sold commercially has to have MSDS (material safety data sheets) that go along with every phase of handling it, for employees and for the public. There also must be documented training for employees in handling the material safely, as well as the use of PPE (personal protective equipment).  This must go along with the shipped bulk materials and it must also have warning labels.

I would like to think that these days, any company would require and document the training and safe handling of such toxic material.  At least I hope we handle toxic materials better today.  Sadly, it came too late for many who were exposed to Agent Orange, or any other chemicals. 

Just like anything else, AO affected everyone differently. Onset can be soon after exposure, or like what we're seeing now.  After lying dormant for decades, it is suddenly triggered by health, or immune system weakening, or maybe time itself brings it on.

Personally, I think the U.S. military leadership was only interested in the application of AO, not any lingering health issues. The DoD should be the donkey on this -- they were in love with destroying the jungle canopy at any cost. It was effective, but the casualties are still mounting up all these years later.

Frank Fox

Combat Medic
Sea/Air Rescue
US Navy with USMC
August 1964 – August 1970 (6 years 1 month)

More Articles by Frank Fox:

My Brother "Bear"
Vets Sharing Recipes: Breakfast Pizza
Old School Patriotism is Still Alive
Vets Sharing Recipes: Southwest Chicken
The White House Christmas Card
War: Some Are Better Prepared
Our Generation
The Marine and the Cure
More Thoughts on War and Youth
Opinions, Thoughts and Feelings
A Different Perspective
A Worthy Rebuttal to Mr. Garrison

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

New Year's Day Battle of 1968

Nui Ba Den, Black Virgin Mountain, Nov. '67

In late 1967, Pope Paul VI declared January 1 a day of peace and persuaded the South Vietnamese and the Americans to observe a truce.

In a released statement, the Vietcong also agreed to observe a 36-hour ceasefire.

The American military had been patrolling the Vietnamese-Cambodian border in an effort to make contact with either North Vietnamese Army units, or supply runs, to the Vietcong coming down the Ho Chi Minh trail. 

The 25th Infantry Division had set up a two-company perimeter, with artillery 7 miles from the Cambodian border in Tay Ninh Province. The position was located near the junction of Highways 244 and 246, close to Black Virgin Mountain. 

Troops had that day recently set up a landing zone (LZ) for supply helicopters. Once the helicopter pad had been constructed, supplies could be flown in and on January 1, the 25th Infantry Division's Christmas mail arrived. Soldiers spent the day opening packages from their families

On the night of January 1, six hours before the truce ended, a 2,500-man force made up of a North Vietnamese Army (NVA) regiment and soldiers from the Viet Cong 9th Division attacked the American position. 

The Vietnamese attacked in three waves and were able to infiltrate the perimeter. The NVA first wave was launched after a heavy mortar attack at 11:30 p.m. A little after midnight, another attack was launched and then a third human wave attack at around 1:00 a.m. 

Spooky AC-47

The Americans were finally able to repel the attacks by using air and artillery support. Air support was provided by attack helicopters and AC-47's. In total, 28 air sorties were launched against the NVA. 

The Americans said that they counted 348 enemy soldiers killed in the action. By comparison, American forces suffered 176 casualties, of which 23 were killed in action. 

Last contact with enemy units occurred at 5:15 a.m. when they fled the battleground. The remnants of the NVA regiment were pursued to the south and southeast.

Thirty days later, on January 31, 1968, NVA and Vietcong forces launched the Tet Offensive throughout South Vietnam. 

Among the soldiers serving in the American units during the battle were future writer, Larry Heinemann, and future film director, Oliver Stone. 

When Oliver Stone returned to the U.S., he was puzzled that the New Year's attack had received no media coverage.

For some time, he even thought he might have imagined the events of January 1 until, at a reunion of the men of the 25th Infantry Division, other Vietnam vets who were there that night confirmed that the battle did indeed take place.

Larry Heinemann later wrote a book about his Vietnam experiences titled Black Virgin Mountain: A Return to Vietnam.  

Oliver Stone would direct a dramatization of the battle in the 1986 film, Platoon.

The final battle scene of Platoon is a dramatization of the real battle Stone experienced. Survivors of the battle often relate just how close to actual events the fighting was to what is seen on the screen, thanks to Oliver Stone.

[From Wikipedia]

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you want to share. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history.

Christmas in Khe Sanh

Christmas in Khe Sanh

by Bill Cowan

When Christmas Day finally arrived, the division headquarters sent cases of hardboiled eggs and eggnog to our battalion.

Our glee at these unexpected delicacies was almost childlike.  Even so far away from home, Christmas again seemed quite real. A few of us were even prepared to successfully debate the existence of Santa Claus.

As the day went on, some of us sang along with the Christmas carols beaming over AFVN. Others broke out pictures of their families or loved ones and talked about home. Nearly all of us ate eggs and drank eggnog until we were sick.

As was customary, a holiday truce had been called between warring factions. Although neither side was known to be meticulous about honoring such truces, each of us shared a slight sense of relief in believing that we weren’t at risk for at least one special day.

Amidst our joy, however, and unbeknownst to us, the enemy was amassing thousands of troops for an attack on our base and the small company outposts on the outlying hills. 

Even as we sang, talked, and drank eggnog, North Vietnamese scouts were peering down at us from the looming hills to the north and planning their strategy for attack. Within less than a month, the biggest battle of the Vietnam war commenced — the siege of Khe Sanh, our small mountain base.

For many servicemen at Khe Sanh, that Christmas was their last. It was also the last for thousands of North Vietnamese troops who, like us, were away from home serving their country.

Today, 46 years after that Christmas and as if it happened only yesterday, I can still see the smiling faces of my Marine friends, hear the holiday music of AFVN, and taste the eggnog.

This small story of mine can be echoed a thousand times over by other veterans who have served through World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Beirut, Iraq, Afghanistan, and a hundred other places where men and women stood in harm’s way in service of their country. The particular place, time, faces, and events may be different, but the memories and feelings down inside won’t be.

If you know a veteran, you might want to ask about one of his or her Christmases past. There’s probably a story waiting to be told.

[Bill Cowan is a retired USMC Lieutenant Colonel. He is also a contributor for the Fox News Channel.]


“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you want to share. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history.

Monsoon Delight: by Loyd Cates

Monsoon Season During Vietnam War

This is the peak of the monsoon season in South Vietnam. It is miserable in the jungle.

Monsoon Delight

by Loyd Cates

The rain is relentless day after day
Nothing you do keeps the ringworm away
Jungle rot eats at your crotch
All you can do is scratch and watch

You share your blood with the devious leech
They affix themselves where you can’t reach
While those nasty bastards suck you dry
The relentless rain conceals the sky

Just trying to eat becomes a chore
Go away rain, you relentless whore
The water flows like a flooded creek
I ain’t slept in a friggin’ week

Rusty gear will get you killed
Cleaning your rifle becomes a skill
But you better do it if you want to live
You only have one life to give

Big assed mosquitoes have one hell of a bite
They swarm your body both day and night
You do what you can just to endure
But they are a plague, that’s for damn sure

No matter how wet it’s always hot
This humid air is thick as snot
I am sick of this rain but it don’t matter
The mosquitoes and leeches just keep getting fatter

One of these days I will board that jet
Never again will my ass be wet
This relentless rain, months of it
Monsoon rain, I’m sick of this shit.

SSG Cates RVN '69-'70
199th Light Infantry Brigade D5/12

Also by Loyd Cates:

Maybe Tomorrow

The Sport of Kings

Memorial Day: by Loyd Cates

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Add your opinion, thought, or comment, about this post. You are also invited to write about anything you want to share. Send it to me in an e-mail and I will be proud to post it for you.

Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog.

A Different Perspective

Frank Fox

By Frank Fox

A hand salute to all who served.

From a different perspective, I didn't realize until I had children of my own what parents go through, especially the Moms out there, when a child is away and fighting in a conflict.

My brother and I were both serving at the same time in Vietnam.

I didn't realize how what was going on in Vietnam affected Moms and Dads at home, until I got home in 1968. At the time, my brother was still in country.

In the evenings, you just couldn't get away from bad news in Vietnam. The war was on the front page of the newspaper and on TV nightly, the first conflict where reporters and film footage could virtually get stories and film footage home the same day.

During the Vietnam conflict, they would show the videos on TV of bodies slung under a helicopter, bodies lined up and covered with poncho's, or in body bags. It must have been gruesome for parents sitting in front of the TV watching it from kitchens and living rooms across the country.

My Mom might not have been dressed up in the latest fashion, maybe only a flower print dress most days, but I watched her wring her hands and pace the floor, chewing on her lip. It ate on her every day. I can only imagine what she went through with both sons away from home.

Multiply that by all the parents daily in any conflict.

We weren't from a generation that had the technology to talk to loved ones. The Vietnam generation seldom got a patch to the states, and no e-mail, it was mostly all snail mail. 

When both of her sons were finally home, Mom got back most of her former personality. I can only imagine the prayers that went up, then and now.

Young men and women new to conflicts don't get to see that until they get home.  Then unfortunately, the cycle repeats itself with the next generation, when they replace their parents anxiously waiting at home, because we get involved in a conflict somewhere else.

God bless all Mom's, they need medals and ribbons -- they've earned them.

Frank Fox
Combat Medic
Sea/Air Rescue
US Navy with USMC
August 1964 – August 1970 (6 years 1 month)


“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Do you have an opinion, or a comment, you would like to share about this post? Click on the comment button.

My Mother's Machine Gun: by John Harrison

My Mother's Machine Gun - M-60

In October of 1967 my unit, the fabled 506th Airborne Infantry Regiment of World War II Band of Brothers fame, deployed to Vietnam as part of the 101st Airborne Division.

Although we did not know it then, we would be there for the bloodiest year of that conflict.

After a short orientation, we were sent to the field, Search and Destroy the Army called it; but to us, we were chasing Charlie, as the saying went even though we rarely caught up with him at first.

Since we were resupplied either every three, four or even five days in the field, and since I did not want my mother to become accustomed to getting a letter from me on some regular basis, I purposefully wrote to her spasmodically, rather than regularly.

A few months later, I was sitting on an LZ in the field near Phan Thiet on the coast and more or less the center of Vietnam waiting for a resupply when I realized that I owed my mother a letter. It had been two re-supplies already, six days, since I had last written. However, I could not think of anything to say to her.

As usual, I had started the letter with the date in the upper right hand corner followed by approximately where I was in Vietnam. So, I wrote “January 25, 1968”, followed by “Phan Thiet, RVN”, but that was as far as I could get.

Then, I looked down at the last page of a Stars & Stripes newspaper in my lap and it had a small article about a strike at the Colt Patent Firearms Company plant that made the M-60 machine-guns we used. Each platoon usually carried three of them but since one of mine was in for repair, I was in the field with only two machine-guns.

So, I started the letter, “Here I am in Vietnam, short one machine-gun for my platoon, and these Bozos are sitting safe at home and are out on strike while we are fighting a war. . .” That got me started and I went on with the letter talking about how quiet it was where we were, how hot the temperature was, how beautiful the South China Sea was, how safe Phan Thiet was, then some more about the missing machine-gun and so forth. Then, I sealed it; ran it to the helicopter, and thought no more about it.

Phan Thiet Street

 When my Mother arrived home from her job at Georgetown University on February 3, 1968, she was already worried and wanted to watch the evening news.

The battles of Tet ‘68 had started and they led the news. Therefore, she was very happy to see a letter from me in the day’s mail.

She got herself a glass of wine, turned on the television to the CBS evening news, and sat down to read my letter.

She opened my letter only moments before Walter Cronkite’s face appeared on the screen; she just had time to read the date, and location when Cronkite’s famous voice intoned his lead story:

“Today in Phan Thiet, Vietnam, there was savage fighting as the Viet Cong tried to seize the normally sleepy provincial capital. Units of the 101st Airborne Division met the enemy head on in a series of exceptionally violent battles that started early in the morning and continued all day. There were heavy casualties on both sides. . .”

My Mother sat there stunned. She read the top of my letter again; she read the name of town on the screen; she read the top of my letter again; she read the name of town on the screen. She started crying. Then, mercifully the news program broke for a commercial. The news from Vietnam actually got worse from there. She continued to cry, and sip her wine.

For those of you that do not remember, CBS’s Walter Cronkite was a god, an oracle of truth at the time, and unfortunately he was not at all upbeat about the chances of even the legendary 101st Airborne Division to hold on to the town of Phan Thiet under such a ferocious assault by a well armed, well supplied and numerically superior enemy. It was about the only time Phan Thiet made the news, but we made it big time that night.

According to Cronkite, the fighting was severe everywhere up and down the coast of Vietnam, so there was no possibility of reinforcements for the embattled 101st Airborne Division in Phan Thiet. This dire prediction was his close-off line for the extended news program.

Except getting up for more wine during commercial breaks, my Mother watched it all. Then, she sat there in her living room staring at the now blank TV screen, cried and finished the rest of her bottle of wine, her dinner forgotten. Her son was in trouble, and he needed a machine gun. She was sure of that.

A little after midnight, my Mother called her mother in Savannah, Georgia. A Depression era baby, it was a testament to her worry that my Mother did not once think of the cost of the long distance call. She had opened a new bottle of wine as well.

They talked for a while. They both cried for a while. They talked about machine-guns repeatedly, but not very knowledgeably, but they knew all about war. Both had lived through World War II and the Korean War by then. Finally, around two in the morning, her mother, my grandmother said: “Let’s call Dickie.”

It turned out that Dickie was Senator Richard B. Russell, Jr., the senior senator from the State of Georgia and probably the most powerful Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee ever. However, many years before, he had been a young boy in my grandmother’s, then Miss Varina Bacon’s, class for two years at the Seventh District Agricultural and Mechanical School in Powder Springs, Cobb County, Georgia.

In addition, Senator Russell’s mother, Ina Dillard Russell, was a teacher and my grandmother’s best friend. That was probably why my grandmother had Senator Russell’s home phone number, which she talked an ATT operator into making a conference call to at about 3:00 AM. The two women just cried as they waited for the call to be put through.

With Senator Russell on the line now, the three of them discussed machine-guns, and why Lieutenant Harrison’s platoon, did not have enough of them. My grandmother wanted to know exactly what Senator “Dickie” Russell was going to do about this problem of national importance, how had he let it happen in the first place and could he also see to it that the strikers were put in jail, or better yet, shot.

After midnight, both my grandmother and particularly my mother could be of a seriously violent inclination. My Mother was the one that suggested shooting the strikers.

My father had always said that United States District Court Judges, United States Senators, and any truly pissed off American mother could cause more trouble than anything else in the world. Here we had two angry, very scared American mothers and a powerful but sleep deprived United States Senator. Things were sure to be interesting in the morning.

Under Fire - John in Center

Meanwhile, the battles in Vietnam continued. Luckily, my missing machine-gun had been repaired and returned before the start of Tet because we had been busy. Finding Charlie was no longer the problem.

A day or so after the telephone call to Senator Russell, my platoon was embroiled in some of the fiercest house-to-house fighting of the war in downtown Phan Thiet, when my RTO (Radio Telephone Operator), Hal Dobie, of Yakima, Washington, handed me the radio handset saying there was a man that said he was a Colonel on the radio asking for “Lieutenant John Harrison” in the clear. This violated so many Army rules and regulations that he had not answered the transmission.

I truly did not know what to do. After the third time I heard him identify himself as Colonel something or other, (I have forgotten his name), and again asked for Lieutenant John Harrison. I just said “Yes.” rather than saying, “This is Alpha 2-6”, meaning, Alpha Company 2nd platoon leader, as I usually would have identified myself.

The Colonel then said he had a machine-gun for me and asked where he could put his helicopter down so he could deliver it to me. I said I was pretty busy at the moment—after all a lot of people were shooting at me.

He reminded me that he was a Colonel, that I was 2nd Lieutenant, and he demanded in the most forceful manner a landing zone -- immediately.

Since he was so insistent, I said that the area in front of my platoon was wide open, with plenty of room to land a helicopter, but then I had to warn him that he would be under heavy fire, both machine-guns and rockets as he landed. His choice. I think the pilot talked some sense into the demanding Colonel and he decided to leave the machine-gun back at our base camp, LZ Betty.

When we finally got back to LZ Betty a couple of days later, the Company armorer was still cleaning that machine-gun. The Colonel had tried to deliver an M-60 machine gun, to an active firefight, encased in a wooden box, enveloped in thick plastic shrink wrap, and full of thick cosmoline, but with no ammunition.

It took the armorer, Carl Rattee, three days and a tub of gasoline to get the machine gun ready to fire. But when he was done, it was beautiful.

Strangely, unlike every other weapon in the battalion this particular machine-gun was assigned directly to me, to Lieutenant John Harrison. It was my very own machine-gun, from my Mom. I liked it and when the Army made me give it back when I left Vietnam, I thought about calling her, but then, I thought it might make her angry. . .

John Harrison

About the Author

During the Vietnam War I enlisted in the Army as a private. I was commissioned as an Infantry Lieutenant upon completion of Officer Candidate School at 20 years old.

I was assigned to Company A, 3rd Battalion (Airborne), 506th Infantry Regiment, 1st Brigade, 101st Airborne Division. Initially I was the Executive Officer, later I assumed the additional duty of Rifle Platoon Leader.

While in Viet Nam I served as a Rifle Platoon Leader, Executive Officer and Rifle Company Commander, including combat operations incidental to the Tet ‘68 Offensive.

Upon returning from Vietnam I graduated from Georgetown University and worked in real estate while going to law school at night.

While practicing law, I also worked in real estate and mortgage banking for about 30 years and finally achieved my lifetime ambition to be a high school history teacher.

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Do you have an opinion, or a comment, you would like to share about this post? Click on the comment button.

DRUGS and The American Soldier in Vietnam

Lawrence "War Hippy" Blouir

by Lawrence "WarHippy" Blouir

I don't imagine this article will help me win any popularity contests with my fellow Vietnam Veterans.

However, since I am a Vietnam Vet, I've never had any aspirations of being popular anyway.  My big struggle was just simply feeling accepted. 

I've noticed that the history of the Nam Vet doesn't say much about drug use.  I have to think it's because we're not proud that some of us used drugs to cope with the insanity of that war.

I'm sure some of my Brothers will say drugs were not tolerated -- they just got guys killed.  I have to think those that said it must have rotated out of the Nam before I arrived, or they are simply in denial of the problem, or maybe they used alcohol to cope instead.  

Whatever their story is, this isn't about THEM.  This is about ME and the Brothers all around me, from Saigon up to the DMZ;  from 1969 until December 1971, when the military forced me to leave Vietnam on a Medevac Bird with the label, "Drug Returnee From Vietnam" attached. 

The Army had a policy that was never publicized, for obvious reasons. If you had a dirty drug test, and they had started surprise drug tests, you were sent to detox, then returned to your unit. 

If you were on an extension, (which I was), you were first sent to detox.  Then you were immediately shipped back to the states.  You had no chance to get your personal effects, and even worse, no chance to say goodbye to the guys you were closer to than family, the guys you knew you'd step in front of an AK round to save. You almost have to be a war vet to understand the bad psychological effects that caused in a person.

The Army Rule:  If you were caught on a drug test and on an extended tour, you must have extended because you were addicted to drugs.  You were immediately sent home. (This was not publicized, because you know how many guys would have used it to their advantage).

My reason for being on an extended tour:  

My first extension leave, I REALLY loved flying and I extended for a spot as a door gunner on a slick. During my leave, I decided that I was gonna keep extending, and I was NEVER gonna come back to this country full of hateful, ungrateful, asswipes -- this country I used to call "home". 

At that time, I hadn't even been introduced to what was called "coke".  Not all of us were there for drugs. I had discovered that you can get used to HELL, if you're forced to stay there long enough. 

I got back to the Nam, and the Battalion Surgeon at 1/9 Cavalry told me I was crazy and he turned down my extension transfer.

Some time after that, one of the guys I smoked pot with, asked if I wanted to do some "coke".  I heard what a good buzz cocaine gave you even before I went to Vietnam, so I said, "Sure, let's do it". It took all my bad feelings away, temporarily, so I kept doing it. 

By the time I found out it wasn't cocaine, I was already feeling the need for it, if I went too long without it. Yeah, this dumb kid started his heroin addiction without even knowing what it was. By then, I didn't care what it was called. I only knew it helped me deal with the Nam, and that's all I cared about.

At this point, I'm sure some self righteous grunts will jump in and say, "We never allowed any drug use out in the bush -- that shit got brothers killed!"  Right on, good for you.  You must have been in-country before me. 

The thing about engineers is, we went out into the bush when the line companies needed to have us there, so I partied with a lot of grunts. I carried a gram vial of "coke".  I can't even count how many line company grunts I partied with that carried a prescription bottle full of "coke", because resupply was less frequent.

By now, you're probably wondering if I spent the rest of my life as a heroin addict.. Well, I spent my first nine months home, a heroin addict on the streets of Cleveland, Ohio. 

We never used heroin intravenously in Vietnam.  There, it was pure and cheap and we smoked, or snorted, it. Back home, it was cut so bad and so expensive, you had to shoot it. 

I got so sick of that lifestyle and after nine months I knew I had to do something.  So, I picked up and moved all the way to LA California, where I'd been raised. Away from the suppliers, I was able to pick myself up, and continue trying to fit back into a society that I had to hide my past from.

This is my story.  It in no way reflects on the honor of my Brothers, who may or may not have chosen drugs as a way to remain sane in an insane environment. Unless you humped a click in our boots, you have no right to judge us anyway. 

Enjoy your Freedom.

Lawrence "WarHippy" Blouir
MOS 63B20 Wheeled Vehicle Mechanic
1st Cavalry Division (AIRMOBILE)
8th Engineer Battalion
1st Air Cavalry Division
24th Duster Battalion
24th Corp Artillery
23rd MP Co.
23rd Infantry Division
Vietnam ’69, ’70, ‘71
The First Team

Bronze Star Medal
Air Medal
Army Commendation Medal

Other Articles by Lawrence (WarHippy) Blouir:

A Worthy Rebuttal on REMFs

The Ultimate Cost of "Freedom"

Memorial Day: The Changes Through Life

A Vietnam Veteran Speaks Out

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Do you have an opinion, or a comment, you would like to share about this post? Click on the comment button.

Bringing Brother Home: by Ronnie Ray Jenkins

Charles "Chuckie" Jenkins

He left in February, and by early June,  he was dead.  June 10, 1965 to be exact, sometime after midnight Vietnam time. 

But it was the next day near Clear Creek when a knock came to the front door. It wasn’t the Army; it was his pregnant wife that I saw from my hiding place behind my Mother’s yellow sundress. 

I never saw my brother’s wife cry before, but as she stood framed in the doorway with the bright light of summer behind her, she sobbed.

It was all so confusing for an eight-year old to witness such a thing. Scary too. It was the first time I ever heard such mournful wailing, and when she passed a telegram to my mother it increased two-fold. The telegram stated my brother, a Green Beret, was missing in action.

What’s that mean, Mom? Is he lost? He was just here a few months ago. He came upstairs, Mom, and sat on the edge of each of our beds taking turns telling us to be good kids and to listen to you and Dad. 

Where’s Vietnam, Mom? I thought he was in North Carolina, Mom. Remember for my class project, I chose North Carolina to write to their tourism bureau to find out about their state?  Mom?  (I only thought those words; there was too much commotion now).

That night we had a lot of visitors. I climbed up on a chair and watched the television. My Dad watched it too, I liked Chiller Theater, but Dad kept trying to find the news. Two stations were the only choices, and I never saw my Dad change the channels back and forth so much. 

I got to stay up late, and even when I was getting fidgety, they didn’t yell at me. My Mom’s eyes sure look red. Dad’s face looks blank, and empty. There were six other kids in the house, but I didn’t know where they were, they were so quiet. Things were never quiet around here.

When the last visitor left, and the television signed off to nothing but white specks on blackness, I went upstairs to bed. I could hear my parents in muffled serious voices, but could make out very little. They rarely talked in such quiet tones. So, I lay on my back with my hands folded behind my head and stared up toward the black ceiling.

Missing. Action. Vietnam. What did it all mean anyway?

My brother knew these woods like nobody did, I thought. He probably was camping, or hiding from the other guys. He did that a lot of times with us kids. He was good at it. I wished I could walk as quiet as he did. You couldn’t hear his boots in the leaves. 

He’d jump out and scare his buddies for sure. That’s what he did to us, and we’d all let out a startled squeal, and take off running back to the safety of the big yard, or house. But, none of us could come close to outrunning him. I doubt anyone could catch him over there. He’d just run and run, and if he had too, he’d climb right up in a tree too. He wasn’t afraid of being in any tall trees; he’d go right to the top. He even jumped out of planes. I don’t like being up high.

The covers feel soft, and I pull them over my eyes to make my darkness even darker. I fell asleep wondering if it was as black there in that place called Vietnam, and if they had katydids. I knew they had monkeys, because awhile back he sent home a picture of him with two of them clutching onto him. He even wrote on the back that they looked like the twins when we were little. Mom laughed, see, I have a twin sister. Good night.

Morning light through the window sure can make a blanket hot. I kicked them off, and noticed all four beds in the room were empty. I walked on my knees on the soft bed and positioned myself at that window. There were cars parked along the road outside the house and people milling around in the yard with their heads down.

A dark green car with a star on the side of it turned around in the middle of the road and I squinted from my perch and watched it leave.

Chuckie's Headstone

We rarely have this much company. That looks like Uncle Paul down there. Hey, there’s my older sister and her husband.  They live far away, and we don’t get to see them much at all.

Why are all these people hugging Mom like that?

I know.  I know.  I know ... I bet the Army guys are bringing my brother home.

The Audio Version of "Bringing Brother Home"

Ronnie Ray Jenkins

About the Author

Ronnie Ray Jenkins is the author of The Flowers of Reminiscence, The Flynn City Egg Man Series, Pickletwit, and hundreds of award winning short stories. 

His series, Son of Trout is a consistent Number One Best Seller on Amazon Kindle. 

He has appeared as a featured author on Huffington Post, CBC Radio, and his blog, Ronnie Ray Jenkins--A Writer's Life is read by thousands.

Visit Ronnie's Blog

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Do you have an opinion, or a comment, you would like to share about this post? Click on the comment button.

Boots: by Lee Tucker

Boots at The Wall

As a Vietnam Veteran, I share many feelings with so many others.

We all served our country at a time when many of our countrymen didn’t agree with the war, or our participation.

Some of us volunteered, others were drafted, but all of us landed in the same country to fight the same enemy.

There are those who believe that their part in the war was more significant than others.

There are those who feel guilty for coming home alive, instead of in a body bag.

All of us are confused as to why we were shunned and protested against for serving our country.

All of us are Vietnam Veterans…

The military, like any machine, can only work when all of its parts are functioning the way they were designed. This includes all of its different branches: Infantry, Artillery, Naval Support, Air Support, Medical Support, and so many others, right down to the mechanics and company clerks. Without every single person involved, the machine will not function at full capacity…

Each Veteran was processed in country the very same way, and given their orders to a specific area to serve within the confines of their MOS. We were issued gear that included Jungle Boots that we would all wear for the time we spent in country.

And so, life in Vietnam began…

I was assigned to the 25th Infantry Division at Cu Chi. It was January of 1968. I was about to understand the full effect of “Tet”…

Being assigned to a mechanized infantry unit, we spent the majority of our time patrolling the rubber plantations along the Cambodian Border.

There are many stories of horror and heroism and just plain Hooah-ism that I could write about, but all of us have stories that we either share, or keep to ourselves. My story here is short and heart felt…

To all of you who have taken a bullet, watched a fellow soldier die, survived a human wave attack, survived mortar and rocket attacks, fired those big guns that scared the hell out of everybody, saved a soldier's life in the field, or in a field hospital...

To those who came out of nowhere and swooped down from the sky to get us out of bad situations…

To those who flew over us and dropped bombs on areas so we could continue our mission…

To those who processed our orders, coming and going…

To everyone who wore the Boots, I say thank you… 

Boots at The Wall

No one else could have felt your fear, or your pride, only you, when you laced up those Boots every day…

We all should be proud of our service. No one else walked in your Boots. No one else has the right to judge your importance.

Thank you all for your service to our country.

Welcome Home Brothers and Sisters…

Lee Tucker,
United States Army
Republic of Vietnam
January 1968 to January 1969



“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Do you have an opinion, or a comment, you would like to share about this post? Click on the comment button.

The Last Fire Base: by Michael Lansford

Michael Lansford

I remember it was late November, cold and raining. The monsoon season had really set in. Everyone was miserable. Nothing was dry, except our weapons and ammo -- priorities one must have.

I was getting close to my DEROS date of 13 December 1969, when the "new" captain came up with this grand plan to make a raid into the Ashau Valley to stop Charlie's resupply to the south via the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

Suddenly, through a break in the rain, along came the flying cranes and Chinooks to extract us to some remote tip of a mountain on the edge of the Valley.

We barely had time to grab our weapons. We had no food, rain gear, nothing, as it was a one-day raid designed to catch the enemy off guard -- they said. This was on 1 December 1969.

Well, as things usually went with the new captain, he sat three 155 split trails down on this pinpoint mountaintop that was so small that all three guns were butted up to each other. There was zero room to do anything.

When we started firing the trails, we tried to dig in, but the other guns were blocking the recoil, so we had to improvise. That made for a fun day. Nothing we tried worked and if the firing continued, the recoil would shove the other guns down the cliffs. We had no way to secure them, plus it was raining in sheets by then. It's hard, if not impossible, to dig in to a muddy, rain-soaked cliff side.

The only blessing came from the monsoon, as it suddenly became too severe to even walk, plus we were on top of a mountain with no cover, no food, rain gear, dry clothing, nothing. We had no back up, or air support. We were on our own.

The bad thing about being on a mountain top in a monsoon storm, you suddenly become the target of all that Mother Nature has and can throw at you in the way of torrential rain and lightning -- and we were cold, soaked, hungry, and alone.

I remember it was so cold, and raining so hard, that the only way we kept reasonably warm was by sitting down in the muddy water-filled trench we had dug to protect ourselves in case of attack. That was a hard way to stay warm -- not dry -- just warmer, but those weapons stayed dry, no matter what. Priorities.

About the FNG's, you could always tell who they were during monsoon season. They were the only ones walking around with weapons exposed to the elements and all barrels were facing straight up into the rain. Not a good idea. We always slung weapons barrel-down in bad weather, for many reasons, all self-explanatory. They were little things that could become big things in a firefight.

Lightning was the worst. There was no place to hide or defend from, just pray. It hit so close, it made the hair on your arms stand straight out. You could feel the static in the air. It was a helpless feeling.

As time went on, we waited for a break in the weather just to find a way out of there, as the longer we stayed, the closer the enemy came and we were easy pickings up there. One mortar in the right place and Boom -- we were gone. Our other choice was to get the mission done and really get out fast.

The monsoon had other ideas. We were stranded there until 12 December, when the weather finally broke. In between time, we dodged sniper fire and some mortar fire, which luckily for us the rain helped with. They missed their targets, except for this one lucky shooter who was walking mortars up the side of the mountain removing pieces of the cliffs as he fired.

Our firing positions were dug into the side of the mountain and as the lucky shooter walked the rounds up the side of the mountain, the ground became more and more unstable. All of a sudden, I heard this whishing sound coming in right on top of us. All I could do was close my eyes and pray. I heard the round hit with a loud thud.

When I opened my eyes, a dud round was sitting right there between my legs. There it was, that being in the right place at the right time thing again.

Here I was short and shouldn't even be out there and I was dealing with this nightmare. They had us zeroed, cut off, and they knew it. Easy pickings. Our only advantage was, it was almost straight up the mountain to reach us, which gave us a slight edge. It's hard to fight uphill.

Combat Tactics 101: Always have high ground, no matter how small, or slight. Just have that edge.

Finally, after our one-day raid had turned into a twelve-day and night survival trip, we were getting off that mountaintop. The downside was, the enemy knew our situation as well as we did. We took rounds, it seemed like, from everywhere. Luckily for us, it was hard for them to shoot straight up and the next mountain over was just far enough away to give us even more edge -- plus they didn't shoot well either.

The most dangerous part was the extraction. Naturally, the guns got out first. They couldn't afford to waste taxpayers' money on good weapons. We, on the other hand, were a little more expendable. So what if we lose a few grunts and arty men. No big deal. We'll get some more. There are lots more where they came from anyway.

Finally, we managed to keep Charlie busy long enough for the last of us to get our ride out. We took rounds in the choppers, but no one got hit. I'm still amazed how we got out alive.

We landed back at the fire base we started from, Zon, if my memory serves me, and I had just enough time to grab what little I had, say a hasty goodbye, and I was out as fast as I had come in.

C-130 Vietnam Transport

I turned in my weapons, clothes, and whatever else they thought I didn't need -- no time to eat or clean up. I just caught that C-130 south to Cam Rahn Bay to start processing out. Then I took my freedom bird home ...well, home as I remembered it.

Later, I was told, but can't confirm, that my last fire base, Zon, was overrun right after I left. There were lots of casualties, almost everyone KIA. It gave me an empty feeling, thinking If I were still there, maybe, just maybe, I could have helped. I never heard anything else about it -- that's some more of that ole right time, right place thing again.

Man was I mistaken about home. As we all learned, the war didn't end when we left. Suddenly we had (and still have) new enemies to fight, just with different weapons. It was a fight harder to win than Vietnam ever was, yet I don't think there were many plans to win. It was just business, you know.

Sin Loi, as I said, "Sorry About That" ...

It feels good to be writing about all this and maybe by writing, help someone else deal with our war better. Kind of like the old days, watching out for each other. That part I miss, not being there for my comrades.

Thanks, Mrs. Heck.  We've all carried a lot of stuff around these long many years with no one, or no way, to tell our stories. The public should know the real us. We paid for it.



“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Do you have an opinion, or a comment, you would like to share about this post? Click on the comment button.

Holidays in The Nam: by Michael Lansford

Michael Lansford

I thought today I would write about how we celebrated holidays in The Nam -- our way of celebrating the 'real world' and the people we missed.

All vets probably had similar experiences.

The holiday, Memorial Day, was very hard as we had just finished the "Hill" (Hill 937, Hamburger Hill, May '69), so we were all pretty numb to everything.

On the 4th of July, someone accidentally fired a tracer into the ammo dump. The first thing it did was set fire to the fuel which, in turn, spilled into the rocket and ammo pit setting them off.

The rockets were for the Cobras. Man that stuff was flying everywhere! No place was safe, because the ammo and rockets had no direction, but what a show! Best Fourth of July ever.

Hanoi Hanna got wind of it and all we heard on our radio was how the People’s Republic of Vietnam had overrun and destroyed the American camp with all personnel. Now that made our day. Hell we blew up our own stuff!

I still wonder who put the tracer round out that way. No one was supposed to fire tracers anyway, but with that light show, it must have been seen and heard all the way into space.

Thanksgiving Dinner - water everywhere

Thanksgiving Day was during monsoon season, of course, and we had only C-Rats -- or so they thought.

I found some officers’ quarters and 'borrowed' some turkey with all the trimmings.

This is a picture of us sitting under a 155 pallet with the rain pouring down and us enjoying our Thanksgiving dinner.

Every time we took a bite of something, the water went everywhere. It was cold and wet, but I told the guys we were having a real Thanksgiving, no matter what. Cold, wet, sloppy turkey and dressing isn't too bad when you are starved for it.

The things we did to observe what we cherished. On Christmas, we found some kind of little tree and Voila! It became our Christmas tree. We even made gadgets to hang on it, like grenade pins, and claymores underneath. Someone made an angel for the top out of a C-Rat box. We had fake presents, using ammo boxes, but sometimes we would put in one round just for effect.

Plastic bags were a luxury, as we used them to keep what valuables we had dry – well, sort of dry. Everything there got wet. If it wasn't the heat, it was the monsoon. But we made the best of it.

I remember someone sent me a hamburger bag just to (in their minds) help me remember the burger stands we used to hang out at. Man it still smelled like burgers and fries. The thing is, when I was alone it made me sad, knowing what I had back in the world and I didn't even know it. That bag meant the world to me. Anything from home was revered.

My family sent me care packages once a month, but there were times it took a long time to get mail, depending on where we were. Then later on, the new Captain I had stopped all my mail, etc. That was the only way to really hurt a troop, withhold his mail. Mail was our lifeline.

Michael Lansford (center) with the guys

Labor Day weekend somehow really fit our world. We labored all right. We took rockets and mortars all weekend from Laos.

We couldn't technically shoot back as they were a "NEUTRAL" country.  Right.

We got around that rule real fast. We just slid around behind them and herded them like cattle until we knew they were officially 'off sides'.

"OOPS Penalty! No time out this time. Sorry about that,” we said. Or, if my Vietnamese spelling is close, we called it Sinh Loi, or “Sorry about that.”

Whenever they had their TET of Lunar holidays we were supposed to have time out and let them observe their religion, etc. Hell all they did was use the time out to move closer, resupply, and get ready for time in. Strange war, when you call time out for their holidays, but not ours.

But aren't all wars like this? Some things don't ever change ...

Michael "Surfer" Lansford
2nd Batallion
"Bravo" Battery
11th Artillery,
155 split trails
101st Airborne
Viet Nam 68-69
Hamburger Hill 10 May-21 May 69

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Do you have an opinion, or a comment, you would like to share about this post? Click on the comment button.