Where There Were No Innocents
Thomas Rowe Drinkard
Copyright 2011by Thomas Rowe Drinkard
Smashwords Edition
Dedication
This book is lovingly dedicated to my best friend and first editor/proofreader, Marjorie Ann Hatfield Drinkard, my wife.
Although we argued about some elements, I was lucky to have listened to you enough to make the book a novel worth reading.
Without you there would have been no book.
NOTE: A glossary is included at the end of this book.
PROLOGUE
I’d been handed a routine mission, but it ended in fire and blood.
I was a Special Forces Captain, one of the legendary Green Berets, assigned to the premier covert operations unit in Southeast Asia, MACV-SOG; performing a duty that was little more than a junior finance clerk’s task.
It pissed me off. I looked out the aircraft window, remembering how it had happened.
The Executive Officer for SOG, a lieutenant colonel, had called me to his office. When I reported to him, he had a smartass grin floating above his starched fatigues and spit-shined boots.
“Captain Brinson, I have an important mission for you.”
He paused, maybe expecting I’d say something. I did.
“Yes sir.”
“You’re going to be the paymaster for the troops who want to be paid in cash. Lieutenant Baldwin, from the finance section has contracted a case of dysentery and can’t travel for hours from place to place in remote locations. I nominated you to replace him. What do you think of that?”
“When?” I said.
“You’ll meet your transportation tomorrow. Finance Section will handle all the details. Check in with them. Do you have other questions?”
“No sir.”
“Dismissed,” he said.
Prick. I did have other questions, but wouldn’t ask the jackass.
The asshole hadn’t even identified the division properly. It was the MACV-SOG Comptroller. I talked to the branch chief, a Lieutenant Commander. He was a little surprised, but arranged everything and loaned me a Browning High-Power 9mm pistol and one magazine.
“Brinson, you’ll take off from Tan Son Nhut in the morning at 0600. You’ll need to start in Da Nang and work your way south. It’ll take you two days. I’ll have someone meet you here at 0500 and give you the briefcase. You’ll count the money and meet your aircraft. Good luck.”
When I left my quarters, it was a bit after 0430. So early that the stench from the fish market nearby hadn’t had time to rise to its full olfactory grandeur. Nasty enough though. The traffic was still light enough that I didn’t choke on blue haze hanging above the streets.
The unfortunate soul who met me in the Comptroller Branch was an Army sergeant. We counted the money, I signed for it and he drove me to Tan Son Nhut. The briefcase, full of cash, was shackled to my left wrist. I had the key, but was tethered to the thing like the Ancient Mariner with his albatross.
“Sir, I’ll pick you up when you return. Just call.”
“Thanks.”
We exchanged salutes and, as he drove away, I boarded the little Cessna 0-1 Bird Dog.
The aircraft was already warmed up, so we were airborne almost immediately after strapping in. I was given some headphones, and the pilot, an Army first lieutenant, gave me the flight plan in brief.
“Captain, we’ll land in Nha Trang to refuel in about two hours, then be on our way to Da Nang. We should be there about noon, or so. Settle back, it’ll be a long, boring flight, we hope.”
He was right about boring. The little one-engine workhorse drummed along above spotty clouds. Green hills, green valleys and slopes sparkled with thousands of miniature lakes—artillery shell holes filled with rainwater. Deceptively peaceful. The South China Sea was beginning to be visible in the distance, on my right, to the east.
The pilot spoke.
“Something’s wrong Captain, make sure you’re buckled in. The control tower in Nha Trang says there’s been a mortar attack, but it’s supposed to be over. We’re landing, but going in fast and hard.”
He was right. I watched out the window. As our two wheels touched down, we bounced a bit and something that looked like a short telephone pole hit the tip right wing from behind and ripped it away. The plane flipped over on its back. I grabbed the briefcase handle and drew my pistol, yelling at the pilot as I cleared the harness.
“Get the hell out of here, I smell gasoline.”
I glanced through the flight deck door and saw that the co-pilot was hanging upside down, bleeding heavily. Something had hit him in the right temple.
The pilot was struggling to get free of his harness. I grabbed the straps, cut them away with my sheath knife, dragged him to the door and kicked it away. Cool, fresh air rushed in. The stench of gasoline was growing. No flames yet.
“We’ve got to get my buddy,” the pilot yelled.
“I’ll go back to check. You get out of here and find a fire truck. Now!”
I pushed him away. Covering my nose with my left arm, I started back through the door. Outside, I could hear the pilot shouting.
“Over here, over here.”
The co-pilot was dead. Time to get out before a fire. I looked over my shoulder as I started through the door. A Jeep with MP markings was barreling across the runway. The pilot ran toward it, waving both arms. He was cut down by machine gun fire.
The vehicle was heading toward the aircraft, which lay like a dead seagull on the runway.
And me.
I’m not a particularly good marksman with a pistol. The one I was carried, I’d never shot, but the asshole standing behind the machine gun in the Jeep wasn’t aiming at me. He was aiming at the airplane, trying to make it explode. I jumped to the tarmac and went to a two-hand stance with the money bag dragging at my left wrist. I cranked off three or four shots as fast as I could pull the trigger. One of my first rounds hit him in the right thigh. He grabbed his leg and swung the weapon toward me. I fired three more times and hit him in the throat. He dropped, gushing blood over the driver, partially blinding him. The vehicle swerved away.
I ran away from the plane, pausing and firing at the driver until the 13-round magazine was empty.
Now what, Brinson?
The driver, wiping blood from his eyes, aimed the Jeep at the airplane for an explosion run. His head dissolved in a red spray of death. Someone had finally been called in to stop the guerrilla attack. Damned good shooting.
I managed to walk to the fire truck that had come to put foam on the Bird Dog. I sat there, on the truck’s running board, head down, trying to keep the pulse pounding in my neck and chest to a minimum. The briefcase shackled to my left wrist threatened to drag me to the runway.
A pair of jungle boots and camouflage fatigue pants were in front of me when I opened my eyes. I looked up. He was wearing a green beret with the 5th Special Forces Group’s identifying flash.
“Name’s Bill Abner,” he said
I stood, introduced myself and told him where I was assigned and what I was doing in Nha Trang, lifting the briefcase to make the point.
“This stupid paymaster duty was supposed to be a boring piece of crap. I was given this pistol mostly as a formality.”
“Did pretty well with it, though, but you’ve gotta thank one of our snipers for greasing that last VC. Let’s go by the headshed and call Saigon. In this damned war, shit happens fast.”
“I’m going to need some ammo and another magazine. I was standing out there with an empty pistol with a pissed-off VC heading my way—until his head blew up. Damned good shooting.”
We went to Group headquarters near the end of the runway. I called the Comptroller and explained that he needed to inform the bases that pay would be a bit late. When I related the details about the shootout, I waited for a reaction. There was dead air on the phone for several seconds.
“Do you need a replacement? Can you go on?” he said.
Tempting as it was, I was now determined to complete this bullshit assignment.
“No sir. I do need transportation, ammunition and another weapon to go with the pistol.”
CHAPTER 1
Kontum—South Vietnam—Late May, 1967
One of the bases I’d visited on the paymaster tour was the dusty little city of Kontum. While I was there, I met the commander of the SOG Forward Operations Base (FOB 2), a lieutenant colonel named Grimm. The troops had nicknamed him Bourbon Bill. He’d sat down beside me at the pay table we’d set up in the club, to chat.
“Word is out that you wasted a VC on the Nha Trang runway, Brinson. How’d that happen?” he said.
I told him the story, not mentioning how pissed I’d been to be a glorified cashier. He held his long chin in his right hand and looked, unfocused, into the distance.
“Pretty damn good shooting with that thing attached to your wrist.”
He nodded toward the briefcase and continued.
“We’ll be getting some new equipment to use on The Trail. Should be an improved model of the wiretap devices you brought earlier. I’ll ask the Old Man to send you back to work with my people.”
“Sir, I’d be happy to come here and work with your men. I hope that I won’t have this damned thing shackled to me when I do.”
He grinned, shook my hand and left.
On the first day back in Saigon, I got the word. I’d be going to back Kontum to demonstrate the new wiretap equipment the next day. A quick turnaround, but Vietnam was like that, particularly SOG.
*****
Although grungy, Kontum was a relief from the big-city crush of Saigon. The Jeep that picked me up was covered with red dust. I was, too—very quickly. The place smelled of wood fires and the awful stench that flew up the nostrils when the GIs poured kerosene into latrines and burned them off. Ah, the smell of burning shit in the morning. Great timing Brinson. Thankfully the FOB was only about five or six kilometers from the airstrip.
Montagnards, the hill people of Vietnam, squatted beside the road. Some sold trinkets. Some sold a cheap, useless copy of their deadly crossbows.
Through the haze, mountains loomed to the West. Over there, in Laos, was the target for wiretaps, the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
I reported to Grimm in his office. He’d just come in from a volleyball game and was wiping sweat and dirt from his face.
“Brinson! You shoulda got here earlier. I’d like to teach you combat rules for volleyball!”
“Thank you sir, I’ll join you soon, to learn.”
“Gotta get cleaned up and check in at the TOC (Tactical Operations Center). Several recon teams are out. Meet me in the chow hall at 1800. Food’s pretty good and we’ll go to the club later. My people have a bunk ready for you.”
I had come, as Grimm had requested, to train the FOB’s Operators on a new piece of equipment the CIA had provided. It was a non-intrusive wiretap, which meant that it worked on an electronic induction principle, without physically cutting into the telephone wires. Because of that, it had a much lower chance of detection. SOG tapped the North Vietnam Army’s (NVA) wires along the Ho Chi Minh trail gathering intelligence about troop movements. This information would be the basis for a pinpoint raid by a company-sized SOG group called a Hatchet Force, or could result in an Arc Light strike by B-52s, devastating everything for hundreds of yards.
During dinner, I met several of Grimm’s staff and team leaders. They all looked at me as if surprised by something. I wondered what the colonel had told them.
In the club, I ran into an NCO I’d known at Ft. Bragg, Chancellor. He was the One-Zero (or leader/commander) of Recon Team Georgia. He invited me to sit at a special table, poured a drink for me and began to tell the story of his most recent mission.
As soon as he began the tale, the club became quiet. Empty chairs at the table filled. Someone unplugged the jukebox and all attention was on the storyteller.
This was Chancellor’s tale:
“The chopper didn’t land—as usual lately—just hovered about five feet above the elephant grass, we got the hell out and hit the ground…”
He paused, getting knowing nods of agreement from others at the table.
“ It was damned near dark when we were working through the grass, which was probably eight or ten feet deep. Then, by the time we hit the tree line—about a hundred meters from the insertion point—it was dark. After all, we’d just gone into double and triple-canopy woods. We stopped for a fifteen-minute security halt. I checked my compass and started to move the team as best as I could toward the RON (remain over night) point we’d planned.”
He took a sip of cognac and Coca-Cola that many of the troops in-country had adopted. It was, to my taste, ghastly and probably a leftover from the French days. I sipped too, but slowly. I had been invited to sit at the One-Zero Table, and wasn’t about to jeopardize my chances of hearing the war stories told by these men. I’d drink what they were drinking.
Chance continued:
“My team is damned good. They were good when I inherited them from Markey—when he rotated back to ‘the world.’ Then, after me’n my One-One (Assistant Team Leader/Radio Operator) here had worked with them for a while, we became an even better team.”
Chancellor nodded toward the man, a staff sergeant named Jamison, seated next to him, who smiled his agreement.
“ But, we’d only moved the team for what I’d guess was about a coupla hundred meters in what was damned near total dark when I called a halt. First off, there was a shot in the distance. Just a single shot. And, as you guys know, that sometimes means that NVA (North Vietnamese Army) trackers are on your trail. Secondly, we were making enough noise to sound like a bunch of elephants on acid. Then, just as everybody went into a quick perimeter formation, something moved just ahead and off to the right of our line of march.”
He had everyone’s attention. There were three other One-Zeros and two of their One-Ones at the round table. A Recon Team normally deployed with two Americans and five Montagnards—mountain tribesmen of Southeast Asia—sometimes referred to as “Yards”. Several teams had Nungs, who were ethnic Chinese mercenaries born in South Vietnam. They didn’t mix with the Yards, though.
Chance, a Sergeant First Class, took another sip and nodded to the Forward Operating Base (FOB) commander, Lieutenant Colonel “Bourbon Bill” Grimm who’d brought the bottle of cognac as his price of admission to sit at the table. The table was exclusively for One-Zeros and those they invited. The commander read all the official reports, but learned just as much or more from the tale telling at the table. These men: the One-Zeros, and their One-Ones, were the elite of the elite.They were truly the keen edge of the blade.
Chance lowered his voice. Those at the table leaned forward.
“Everybody froze. I heard the tiny little snicks of safeties going off. That was all. I eased over toward the area where the sound had come from. I heard it again. It sounded like somebody crawling through the brush, moving toward us. I made damn sure that my safety was off. It sounded like only one bad guy, but we were out there trying to find the 325 Charlie NVA Division. And, you know there might have just one clumsy dude backed up by a regiment. In that kind of darkness, you don’t take chances.”
“ I put my hand on the Yard point-man’s shoulder and, by pressure, told him to move left. I eased to the right with Jamison behind me. The movement stopped. There was no sound except the occasional monkey howl and the buzzing bugs that loved my hide so much.”
He paused for another sip—increasing the dramatic effect with his silence—then continued in almost a whisper.
“We all stopped and strained our eyes as much as we could, and saw nothing. I couldn’t smell anything either. You know how, sometimes you can smell the NVA bastards because of their body odor—then I did smell something nasty. I was picturing a patrol of about ten NVA easing toward our position and felt my nerves zinging, getting ready to fight. About that time there was a big, loud ‘Whuff!’ and this damn hog came running through our position. Big sonofabitch, probably a boar, but I didn’t have a chance to check for balls! He didn’t do anything but snort and charge ahead, slamming through the brush right down the middle of the team’s perimeter. I told you that our team was good! Not one guy popped a cap when he came through. Turns out that that was really good considering what happened later. I didn’t check closely, but I’ll bet that a couple of our guys damn near pissed their pants.”
He paused and sipped again, winking broadly as he put down his glass.
“ I know I damn near had wet shorts!”
There was general laughter and a freshening of the cognac and coke by Bourbon Bill accompanying the banter by the other team leaders. The unit at Kontum was one of three FOBs in South Vietnam. The missions these Special Forces men ran were across the borders into Laos, Cambodia and North Vietnam. The fact that SOG even had an operational capability at all was classified SECRET. All missions were approved at the Joint Chiefs of Staff level—and frequently by the White House itself, because of their sensitivity. They were all classified TOP SECRET with a special code word indicating severely limited access. PRAIRIE FIRE was for Laos, DANIEL BOONE was for Cambodia.
“After having the crap scared out of us by the pig…” Chance said.
His audience was hot for the rest of the story.
“We waited about fifteen minutes to listen for more shots and to make sure that no one had scared that damned hog into us, and then started moving out. Again though, after having to nearly hold hands and daisy chain to keep track of one another, we were making much too much noise for my liking. I got on the radio and called back here to the TOC to tell them approximately where we were and let them know that we were going to RON (remain overnight) in place.”
Chance was a medium height, slim man with longish blond hair and an easy grin. He rolled his hazel eyes at the FOB commander and took a quick bird-like sip of his drink.
“The guy on night duty was new. He’s never been in the bush yet, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. He said, ‘No, sergeant, you’ve got at least another klick (kilometer) to go. Press on.’ I thought about telling him where he could press his klick, but finally answered, ‘ Roger. Out.’ and turned the radio off.”
He glanced at Bourbon Bill again and, turning to the other team leaders with a confidential tone, continued the story. The colonel showed no reaction.
“I put the team in a tight perimeter on the best ground I could find close by in the darkness. All the Yards were in a star, facing out, lying on their bellies. Markey and I leaned back to back against a fairly large tree trunk.”
Jamison picked up the story.
“Chance was beginning to snore within twenty minutes, and making too damn much noise, so I woke him up and reminded him about the radio,” he said.
Jamison was, like most of the troops in the club, wearing cut off camouflage pants, an olive-drab tee shirt and flip-flops. He was a short—about five-seven — burly man with black hair cropped in a burr-cut. His five o’clock shadow was almost as long and dark as the hair on his head.
Chance took over again.
“Yeah, Jamison keeps me straight. He said he’d take the first watch if I’d call the FOB. So I called back to the TOC and got the same duty sergeant. I told him, in a whisper, ‘We’re there.’ He came back to me in a whisper—like he was out there with me—‘Roger. Out.’ So I turned the radio off, took a sip of water from my canteen and pulled my poncho liner up around me to catch a few Zs,” Chance said
If the team leader’s story about troubles with his TOC affected the colonel, there was no visible evidence.
“It felt like I’d only just stretched out when one of the Yards started tugging on my shirt sleeve,” Chance said.
“‘Sargie, Sargie!’ He was whispering, and too damned loudly. ‘Shhh!’ I told him. Be quiet and go to sleep. ‘Sargie, Sargie!’ he kept it up. Finally he got my full attention.”
“Sargie, VC wake me up. He want me pull guard. What I do?”
Jamison interrupted again, grinning broadly.
“ I’d heard the Yard’s question and slid around the tree just in time to hear Chance say, ‘Oh shit!’ Out loud, too,” he said.
There was general laughter and a couple of low whistles. Bourbon Bill commented as he broke a grin.
“Chance, that wasn’t in your after-action report!” he said.
More laughter and jibes bounced around the room.
One of the other One-Zeros broke in and asked Chance to finish his story. He had me, too. As a visitor, though, I was glad for someone else to get him to go on.
“ I told Jamison to get everyone in tight, then told the Yard to go back and tell the NVA troop that he’d take over. Then he was to come back to me and lead us out over the spot where he was supposed to be standing guard. I still hadn’t heard or seen anything, but now, maybe because my butt hole was squinched up so tight, I could smell distant cooking fires. Best Jamison and I could figure, then and now, we’d come into a NVA perimeter and they thought that we were one of their patrols returning. Hell, they couldn’t see either! Our guess is that we probably had landed on the perimeter of a company-sized unit. All seven of us!”
Everyone at the table leaned just a bit closer.
Chance spoke as if he thought the NVA could overhear.
“ We moved without making a sound and, so damned slow, that part of my brain was screaming at me —wanting me to get the hell out of the AO (area of operations). Jamison, who’s damned good with a compass, was up front with the Yard point man.”
He nodded at his One-One and lifted his glass, then continued.
“ I brought up the rear with one of the Yards trailing me.”
“As soon as we finally got clear of the area, I had Jamison take a heading for our primary extraction LZ (landing zone). Just before daylight, we stopped to catch our breath. Jamison put the team into a defensive perimeter. I got on the radio and called the TOC and requested an emergency extraction. The same asshole was still on duty. He immediately asked, ‘Are you under fire?’”
“Not yet, but if you screw around, we will be soon. Now get the duty officer to call for extraction now or I’ll kick your ass when I get back!” Chance said.
Grimm interrupted.
“That duty sergeant has been trained in depth and will soon go out with a RT to complete his education.”
The statement brought smiles of satisfaction to the One-Zeros. Everyone else refreshed their glasses with cognac and hoisted them in a salute. I skipped the cognac and poured in more Coke before joining the toast.
Chance turned to the colonel.
“Boss, I understand that there was an Arc Light done on the grid coordinates we sent in. Has anybody done a BDA (bomb damage assessment) yet? I wonder how many of the little bastards there were out there,” he said.
“I’ve asked Saigon about it, but they tell me that we’ll get to do it if it’s approved. And, you know how that can be.” Grimm said.
Often, men who risked their lives to bring back hot intelligence never knew its worth.
Conversation around the table had drifted into other subjects and the hour was getting late for men who were often up at—or before—dawn training their teams or preparing for an upcoming mission. I glanced over the table at Chance and when I caught his eye, lifted my glass in a toast. He nodded, raised his glass and continued his conversation with the colonel.
Chance had invited me to the table, telling me he wanted me to hear the true story of his most recent mission. He had worked with me when I was the Training Officer for the G-3 (Operations and Training staff) at the JFK Center for Special Warfare at Ft. Bragg, NC. He’d been the NCO I relied on for just about any task the boss wanted done. When he’d gone to Vietnam eight months ahead of me he had orders to SOG. I’d thought he’d go to the headquarters on the OP-35 (Special Forces cross-border operations directorate) staff. He thought so too. Then the Sergeant Major (SGM) had told him to report to Kontum for RT training.
“What’s that?” he’d asked.
“You’ll find out when you get there. And you’ll love it!” The SGM said.
Then, he’d laughed.
Chance found out and did love it. He became a One-Zero within four months and was considered one of the best running RTs out of FOB-2.
I stepped outside the club, an air-conditioned concrete block building, into the liquid heat of the Vietnamese night. I dumped the remainder of the awful drink into the red dirt, made my way down the gravel path to the louver-sided wooden hooch where I’d been sleeping for the past week. The only sound, thankfully, was the roaring of the camp’s generators. It was time to sleep and get ready to go back to Saigon.
CHAPTER 2
I’d packed most of my gear in a duffel bag the night before, so all I had to do was shave, pay my respects to the camp commander and get a Jeep to take me to the airfield to catch a ride to Saigon. Since it was only 0730, I figured to be there by mid-afternoon and could get a head start on writing my after-action report for the boss. It was Friday, and if I was really lucky, I might be able to finagle Saturday afternoon and Sunday off. I had some special ideas about the weekend—and they involved a lady.
Getting around the country was pretty easy for people assigned to SOG. We all had a set of “Blanket Travel Orders,” good anywhere in Southeast Asia. The orders told the commander of any aircraft we chose that we had priority over any passenger up to full colonels. We’d show the orders and our SOG I.D. to the pilot, or terminal boss, bump an unfortunate passenger and be on our way.
The SOG I.D. card was a piece of work. It had only a picture of the bearer, in civilian clothes. Beneath the picture was a number beneath for identification. No name. It informed those who inspected it, that the person in the picture was not to be detained for any reason. It further stated—in three languages: English, Vietnamese and French—that the bearer was authorized to carry any weapon he chose. The I.D. card was fondly called the “get out of jail free” card. I’m sure it was used for that purpose more than once.
Chance knocked on the hooch door and came in.
“How’s it hangin’ Đại uý (Vietnamese for captain)? I figured you’d need a ride to the airfield and we could chitchat until you leave. Before we head out, though, Bourbon Bill wants to see you in the TOC. I’ll just hang around and keep my hands on the Jeep until you’re through. Someone else might think they need it otherwise,” he said.
“Sounds good, thanks. I was gonna go by and make a courtesy call anyway. It shouldn’t take long.”
After showing my credentials to the guard, I entered the TOC and found Grimm listening in as an operations sergeant made radio contact with a team in Laos. He was partly turned away from me as I came in, absorbed in listening to the radio report.
Grimm was a tall man, more than six feet tall. He had only a small, brownish horseshoe of hair around the sides. He was slender in a way that emphasized the sinews in his arms. I’d finally played a version of volleyball he called Combat Rules with him on the other side of the net and could attest to his quick, leathery toughness. By reputation, in the woods he was an efficient and lethal soldier.
Fortunately, the radio contact was a normal SITREP (situation report) and required no action. As soon as the team had signed off, Grimm turned to me.
“Brinson. Good mornin’. You’ve done a helluva job training my men, from what I’ve heard. Thanks. By the way, what is your first name? Since you’re probably going to be coming back on a fairly regular basis, I don’t want to keep calling you ‘Brinson’ or Captain Brinson. Just seems a little stuffy,” he said.
“My first name’s Mack, Sir.’”
Now we were going to be on a first-name basis. He’d call me Mack and I’d call him “Sir” or “Colonel.” That’s the way things were unless the two individuals involved got much closer than just a professional relationship.
“Mack, I know they like you down there in Saigon, but if you’re ready to operate a little closer to the sound of gunfire, let me know. We don’t live a bad life here, we’re not nearly as cushy as in Saigon, but I get the feeling you’d be happier near the action.”
He watched me for a reaction, his eyes dark and inquisitive. He was judging me as much as offering a job. The chances that the big boss at SOG HQ would release me were extremely slim for a number of reasons. Grimm wanted to know more about Mack Brinson.
“Sir, I’d love it. I knew some of your men at Bragg and got to know several of the others in the past week. If you have an opening for an ops and training officer, please consider me. I’ll have to warn you, though, if I’m going to plan missions for you, I’ll have to go out on a couple of them with RTs before I’m comfortable with the task.”
It was, obviously, what he’d wanted to hear.
“Mack, I’ll send a message to Colonel Singer (the SOG commander) and ask him about the possibility of reassigning you. He’ll probably tell me to go piss up a rope, but I’ll give it a shot.”
He looked at the big clock above the bank of radios.
“You’d better get a move on, its almost 0830. All the troops who have honeys in Saigon are gonna be filling the aircraft. Keep your ass down, Mack.”
“Thank you sir,” I said.
He turned back to the radios as I left the TOC.
“He offer you a job?” Chance said.
His question was the first thing he said as I headed for the Jeep. He’d parked the vehicle in the shade of a tree and had a smug look on his face.
“What do you think? Or did you have something to do with it?”
I knew he wouldn’t answer and wasn’t disappointed. He barely smiled. He simply started the Jeep and drove it in his usual manner—wildly—barely avoiding the people squatting alongside the red dirt roads and scattering chickens before him. The dust plume the vehicle left behind in a trail probably half-choked them.
When we got the airfield’s operations building, it was nearly 0900. Chance told me he’d wait to make sure I got on a flight before going back to the FOB, so I left the duffel bag with him and made my way inside.
The operations building/terminal/control tower was a concrete block building surrounded by concertina wire and had air conditioning. For that, I was going to be grateful once I got inside. Even this early in the morning, the heat was stifling. The sweat on my arms had caught a coating of red dust as we drove and I was definitely going to need a shower when I got to Saigon. I wore sterile tiger-stripe fatigues, no insignia or name, and a bush hat. I also carried a Browning High Power 9mm pistol in a shoulder holster.
The Air Force guard at the entrance eyed my SOG identification card and travel orders suspiciously. He looked even more closely (enviously) at the nice pistol.
“You can go in.” He said.
He’d probably dealt with a number of the SOG people before.
Inside, I stood at the end of a line of four people who were trying to get seats on the next aircraft going to Saigon. The chalkboard said that there was a plane going out at 0930. If I could catch it, I’d be in Saigon by noon.
The three men at the front of the line were young enlisted troops in wrinkled jungle fatigues, and by their shoulder patches, were assigned to the local MACV advisory team. They probably had weekend passes and were trying to get to the big city as soon as possible. Behind them was an Army lieutenant colonel wearing sweaty khakis. He was a Quartermaster Corps officer, a supply and logistics man. The USAF sergeant at the passenger desk told the three young troops the bad news.
“There’s only one open seat on the next aircraft, a Caribou, departing at 0930, so all but one of you will have to wait until 1330 when we’ll have a C-123 going to Tan Son Nhut.”
“That’s okay, Sergeant.” The colonel interrupted, “I’m going to take that seat anyway. I need to get to Saigon soonest. These troops can wait here for the next flight. They’ll probably enjoy it more, anyway. They’ll be together.”
He gave the troops a smug glance and moved ahead of them to the sergeant’s desk.
The Air Force NCO flushed but made no comment as he examined the colonel’s I.D. and travel orders. I’d seen enough, and was feeling a bit feisty.
“Excuse me Sergeant.”
I stepped forward to stand beside the officer.
“I think that these orders will give me that seat. I have urgent business in Saigon. The sooner I’m there, the better. Sorry Colonel.”
The man nearly exploded. He was a short, heavy man with a red porcine face and greased-down brown hair. As I put my SOG I.D. and blanket travel orders on the desk, he snatched them up before the sergeant could read them and began sputtering.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
His double chins quivered and sweat ran down his too-long sideburns.
“I’m a Lieutenant Colonel in the U.S. Army and I’m not going to be bumped by some little spook with phony-baloney papers! You get your ass back in line!” he said.
The Air Force officer on duty, a major, came from behind his desk and asked for my credentials. The colonel reluctantly gave them up. When the major studied them—obviously having seen such documents before—he looked up at the furious officer.
“Sir, these papers are in order and are signed under the authority of the Commanding General of MACV. Sorry, but you’ll have to wait. There are plenty of seats on the flight that departs at 1330,” he said.
He turned his back on the colonel and handed the documents to the Desk Sergeant for processing. He didn’t smile when he glanced at me but I think there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The fat officer wasn’t through. He grabbed my shoulder to turn me toward him. It was only because of many, many hours of discipline under the tutelage of my honored karate sensei that I didn’t deck him on the spot. He was still close to yelling.
“You little shit! I’ll remember you! By your haircut you’re probably some Army lieutenant or captain with one of them snake-eater outfits. I’ll see you one day when you’re in uniform back in the States and I’ll have your ass.”
Spittle was flying and dribbling down his chin. I stepped back a bit to avoid the shower and did my best to present a calm, professional face.
“Colonel, I’m sorry to inconvenience you. I hope you have a good flight later today.”
I nodded and turned my back to him. I could hear him stomping to the door and everyone heard the door slam as he left the building.
The sergeant processed the information and booked me for the flight with hardly a smirk. The three young troops were openly delighted.
When I returned to the Jeep, Chance was sitting there talking to some Vietnamese kids, drinking an orange So Be soft drink.
“ Who stuck a thorn in that fat little colonel’s butt? You? Sir, am I to assume that my Đại uý bumped him off the flight?”
He gave me an evil little grin and lifted the soft drink bottle in a toast.
No answer necessary. I bought him another soft drink and one for myself. The wait was short. When the flight was called for boarding, I waved to Chance and, hoisting my duffel, walked up the ramp. Inside the Caribou, a twin-engined STOL (short takeoff and landing) aircraft, the accommodations were Spartan, but I settled into the pushdown nylon-webbing seat and after the noisy, dusty takeoff, relaxed in the cooler air and actually slept most of the way to Saigon.
CHAPTER 3
Chance had radioed SOG headquarters with my flight information. When I got off the plane, still blinking from the nap and nearly blinded by the eye-boiling midday sun, I got my shades on and saw a vehicle waiting for me.
Sergeant Sandy Brown waved at me from the blistering tarmac next to the control tower. He was standing outside a white Datsun sedan. SOG had several of these little cars that were officially the property of the U.S. Embassy. The damnedest thing was that, although a better ride than the standard Jeep, they were much hotter in the Vietnamese weather. The officer to whom the sedan was assigned had taken a Jeep instead, leaving the peons to swelter in the black four-door sedan that had air conditioning. The airflow was limited to the two front windows. The thoughts of some dude on a motor scooter pulling alongside and dropping a grenade in the back seat made for caution.
No salutes. He was in civvies and I was in a sterile uniform. He took my duffel bag and put it in the back seat and we made our way out the airbase gate and into the clogged stream of military vehicles, Renault taxis, motor scooters, bicycles, motorcycles, pedicabs and cyclos crawled jerkily toward the city. Many of the vehicles had two-cycle engines and spewed out a particularly foul blue smoke. Others just naturally smoked. The worst were the cyclos. These were a motorized version of the pedicabs. Both were three-wheeled vehicles with two wheels in the front and one in the rear. Over the front two seats was a kind of scoop-shaped basket. The driver sat behind the seats on a regular bicycle seat. If the vehicle was a pedicab, the driver pushed pedals. If it was a cyclo, there was a blue-smoke-making engine that provided the power. Often, it seemed, the passengers were sort of a bumper in case of a collision.
In Saigon, I used a Jeep most of the time. It was a normal M-151, with only a slight difference. As with the rest of SOG’s vehicles, it had no unit designation stenciled on the bumpers. It was black and had markings that indicated that it was a U.S. Embassy vehicle—the better to keep a low profile, at least in theory.
The compound on Duong (formerly Rue, or street) Pasteur, near the center of the city, housed the SOG headquarters building was another building, used by some obscure Vietnamese government agency. The whole compound, about 100 yards square, was protected by a concrete wall about twelve feet high, topped with barbed wire and concertina. Imbedded in cement at the top of the wall were large shards of broken glass. Although it sounds, and is, somewhat intimidating it was a common type of wall in Saigon. A U.S. Army MP kiosk controlled access to the front gate from Pasteur Street. There was no back gate.
The SOG building was three stories of blank, tan concrete. Before it was modified for the command’s purposes, it appeared to have originally had balcony walkways on each floor. Now, it was a solid wall. Access to the building first required passing through a steel door by keying a cipher lock. Upon entry, one was in a small lobby area occupied by an armed guard who inspected each individual’s I.D. After being “buzzed through” another steel door, in order to gain access to any room on any floor, one had to key in a second cipher lock code. The building met the Defense Department’s security requirements of a vault for classified information.
When I got to the office where I had a desk, I found that only Dave, an Air Force administrative specialist, was in the office. Everyone else, he explained, had gone out to Camp Long Thanh (CLT) for a parachute jump. Making jumps, regardless of military branch, to maintain one’s hazardous duty pay was just as sacred in Vietnam as anywhere else. That was perfect for what I had planned.
After checking through a few routine messages, I asked Dave to go down to the CommCenter (communications center) and bring back the incoming teletype traffic for the day. I wanted a bit of privacy and I knew he’d stop for a while to chat with the guys who worked there.
My predecessor in the job, who’d evidently felt himself a throwback to earlier, more genteel days, had been a member of an exclusive tennis club in Saigon. The facility went back to French colonial days: the Cercle Sportif Saigonnais. I was disdainful of such luxury in a combat zone and when he arranged for me to take over the remaining four months of his membership, I made grateful noises but vowed not to use it. When, one of the NCOs I’d known at Bragg came to town for a debriefing on a mission he’d run, he asked me to take him to the Cercle Sportif.
“Like your predecessor used to do,” he’d said.
Hell, I decided, if a tough One-Zero sergeant asks me to take him, it can’t be too soft to continue my membership.
I kind of enjoyed an occasional set of tennis anyway. I bought a racket.
CHAPTER 4
About a month ago, when I had taken my Vietnamese Special Forces counterpart, Đại Uý Bac to the club, an event took place that had spurred the reason for my eagerness to return to Saigon. Bac and I had played a couple of sets of tennis and were sitting on a covered patio cooling off and drinking Biere Larue (an almost-acceptable local beer) when one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, walked by.
She was dressed in a pale blue áo dài (anglicized as ow yai), a long, fitted tunic and skirt that was slit from hip to ankle, with white silk pantaloons underneath. Her shoes were white, high-heeled sandals. When she walked, everything flowed. I could almost hear the susurrus of the pantaloons caressed by the overskirt. Her hair was a cascade of black, shining with blue highlights like satin in the afternoon sun. It draped halfway down her back and swung with every proud stride. She appeared to be wearing very little makeup and obviously didn’t need much. I watched in almost stunned silence as she went inside the club building and disappeared. I guess everyone else watched too.
“Choi oi!” I said.
I turned to Bac after uttering the expression, which is an all-purpose Vietnamese exclamation. In this case it roughly translated to, “Wow!” I followed it up with my best, painfully polite Vietnamese, remarking on the unusually pretty woman who had graced us by her presence. Got to keep the old cultural bridge intact.
Don’t want to lust too openly about the local ladies, Brinson.
He nodded in agreement, his dark eyes sparkling. He chuckled before taking a sip of beer. What he said then, jolted me.
“You want to meet her?”
Well, hell yes!
“Yes, that would be very nice. I think I would like to talk to her and get to know her. She looks like a very nice lady.”
Lame, and an awful understatement, but the best I could do on the spot.
He pushed the filigreed metal chair back and started into the club. Then turned back briefly.
“One more Biere Larue, okay?” he said.
Grinning, he went inside. I got the beer. A cheap bribe.
When he came back, he had a self-satisfied look. He sat, pulled his chair forward, put his elbows on the table as if telling me state secrets.
“ The bartender says her name is Song. Her father is a government man and lives in Da Nang. He said that she lives here in Saigon, but he doesn’t know where.”
“But, Đại uý Bac,” I fumbled for a politic way to express myself and finally said, “How can you introduce me if you don’t even know her?”
“I can do. She comes now to the tennis court.”
Before I could do or say anything, Bac stood up and addressed the woman, who was now dressed in a short, white tennis skirt and sleeveless sweater and carrying a racquet looking, if possible, more jaw-droppingly lovely than before
He stepped into her path, half-bowed and began a conversation in Vietnamese that was so fast I could only pick up a few words. Bac turned, swept his arm toward me and continued talking. She said nothing, but glanced around him —briefly—at me.
I wanted to climb down the amber neck of the beer bottle. I had no idea what Bac was telling her but her expressions began to tell me the story from her point of view.
She stared incredulously at Đại uý Bac and then looked at me with something close to contempt. I was a little pissed. My friend, however misguidedly, had tried to do me a favor and was probably also embarrassed. So then, as is normal when I get my temper overheated, I screwed up.
I stood up and walked the few steps to where she and Bac stood. I tried, in my best Vietnamese—taught to me at Ft. Bragg and more recently by a buddy in SOG—to introduce myself and clear up any misunderstandings.
At first, I wondered whether I’d have to dodge her tennis racquet. Those huge, dark, slightly tilted eyes were sparking. Then she stepped to one side as gracefully as she’d done everything else.
“I have a tennis engagement, gentlemen. Please excuse me.” She was still lovely as she walked away, with only a slight stiffness to her stride.
That had been a bad afternoon. Bac and I left Cercle Sportif and wound up drinking too much in the bars of Cholon, the Chinese sector of the city. The next morning he was nosily sleeping off a hangover on the couch in my room at the Five Oceans hotel when I woke up.
I was just hung over.
That was a month ago, but I still can’t look at a bottle of Biere Larue without remembering all the sensations it created in my head and gut.
Today, after getting back from Kontum, I was anxious to call Bac because he’d sent me a private message that his boss was acquainted with someone who actually knew the beautiful woman who had been walking through my memory for the past few weeks. When I called Bac, he came on the phone with his normal combination of enthusiasm and guardedness.
“Ah, Đại uý, it is good to hear you. Would you like to meet again soon so you can tell me about your trip?”
He would say nothing about business on the phone and wouldn’t even talk about places to meet, if possible. Good security practice.
“May we meet in the same place as before?” I said.
“Yes, Đại uý, it would be good to do that. Would tomorrow be good for you?” he said.
“Tomorrow is ideal,” I said.
I knew he often spent Sunday with his family out near Binh Hoa—about 20 miles away, and didn’t want to intrude.
“Yes, I will invite my boss and we will meet a man I think you’ll like to know,” Bac said.
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I thought he’d be bringing Colonel Duc, the commander of STD (Strategic Training Directorate, the Vietnamese counterpart operation for SOG). The other man must be the one who supposedly knew Miss Song. Good!
“Okay, I’ll be there at about 1100 and we can make it a good afternoon. See you then,” I said.
We signed off and I sat back, staring at the calendar. I’d only been “in-country” for a little more than three months and yet my life before I came to Vietnam seemed distant.
I’d been here for less than two months when I got my “Dear Mack” letter from Clare. Actually, it wasn’t from her, it was from her lawyer. It cited irreconcilable differences, etc., etc. and she wanted a divorce. The terms weren’t overly onerous, so I suspected that she had a boyfriend. I signed the papers and sent them back. Within two weeks I had a copy of the divorce court order. Efficiency has a price, though; I got the bill from the lawyer. It was still in my private safe. He’d have to wait.
Sue me in Vietnam, sucker.
Now, single again, I was looking forward to a mere introduction to a woman from a culture I didn’t understand, to a woman I might not even like once I knew her. Ironic. But in any case, as adolescent as it seemed, I was excited over the prospect.
Dave came back with the yellow curling teletype messages, all with the bold, red TOP SECRET stamps along with other restrictive codewords. I took them, and after glancing through them, got a yellow legal pad and wrote a draft report of my trip to Kontum. I gave it to Dave and asked him to type it up for me, but told him that there was no hurry.
“If the boss needs me, please tell him that I’m meeting with Captain Bac tomorrow morning. I’ll stop by for a few minutes before I go to the meeting. If I don’t see you tomorrow, I’ll see you Monday.”
No need to tell anyone why I was meeting with Bac, nor where. I got the Jeep, drove through the clog of traffic, heat and fumes to the Five Oceans hotel in Cholon, my home away from home in the Saigon area.
Many GIs knew Cholon as the Chinese sector of Saigon. That’s fairly close, but it was more like a different city without defined boundaries, so far as I could tell. The U.S Government had leased a number of hotels and villas in that part of town as housing for the people assigned to the MACV (Military Assistance Command, Vietnam) headquarters and other elements in the Saigon area. The main PX—which was much like an Asian predecessor to U.S. shopping malls, was in Cholon, as were the Phu Tho horseracing track and the central fish market. The latter announced its presence to one’s nose at varying distances depending on the prevailing wind and heat.
The Five Oceans was an old French hotel within a walled compound. Massive diesel generators provided the power for its window air conditioners. There were four floors for tenants and a restaurant with pretty good food, on the top floor. The suites on the first floor were, in 1967, supposed to house four officers each. The arrangement was a bit of a strain with only one bathroom per suite.
When I moved in, there were only two other men living there. They’d figured out the system: pay the rent for the absent officer(s), pay the housekeepers as if the suite had four men and give them extra tips. It worked. Within four months, there were only two of us—and we both worked for SOG. My roommate, Dan, was the commander’s adjutant. Dan and I had redecorated the two rooms to make living a bit more comfortable. Quite unauthorized, but, as the saying went, what are they going to do? Send me to Vietnam?
Once in my room, I showered and stretched out on the bed. Although the FOB at Kontum was a solid place to visit, I still felt caked in the red dust. The roads were dirt and there was no running water. I didn’t wake up until Dan came in. He clattered about and finally yelled to wake me up. He had been to Long Thanh for the parachute jump and had headquarters scuttlebutt to share. I told him the stories I’d heard at the One-Zero table in Kontum and even let him know that Bourbon Bill might be asking for me to be reassigned to his FOB. Since Dan was the Old Man’s adjutant, he’d see anything that came in for the boss’ attention. The evening ended with a nice dinner upstairs and a few hands of penny poker in the room of some buddies. I begged off the late-night playing, pleading exhaustion. The truth was, once I was in my bed, I had trouble sleeping. Tomorrow was too far away.
*****
The next morning I had breakfast alone as Dan slept in. I packed my tennis racquet and bag for Cercle Sportif. I was in my office by 0800. I checked the overnight teletypes for any crisis and then went to the CommCenter to catch anything that hadn’t yet been delivered.
Dave had typed my report, and made several corrective suggestions. Right. I initialed the draft and dropped it into his inbox. After another visit to the CommCenter, I returned to my desk. My boss, a Navy Commander named Vaught, had come in while I was away.He asked me a few questions about my visit to Kontum and about the wiretap project. I retrieved my draft report from Dave’s desk and read him a couple of entries, since I knew he’d be forwarding it upstairs to his boss. Vaught heartily agreed with my recommendations and began making noises about needing to go somewhere for a vague mission.
It was Saturday and quiet. He didn’t want to be here any more than I did. I told him that I was meeting with Captain Bac, omitting the conference location. We left the office to Dave.
I arrived at the tennis club early. With manicured lawns, square-cut hedges and curved red tile roof, it looked totally out of place in a war zone. Still, I had read about WW II officer’s clubs in England and later in France, which were luxurious, even by American stateside standards. I remembered what one of my NCOs had once said, “You don’t have to practice to be miserable, that comes naturally. Live the best you can, anywhere you are.” Carpe diem!
I ordered a Bloody Mary and waited for Bac. His surname almost certainly wasn’t Bac. All the men of STD were known by assumed names, their noms de guerre were intended to protect their families. The Viet Cong habitually targeted the wives and children of those who opposed them.
Bac came through the iron gate carrying his tennis bag, dressed in civvies. I waved at him and he headed toward the table. He was about 5’ 5” and slightly burly for a Vietnamese. I estimated that he was probably in his mid-thirties. His hair was short on the sides and slightly thinning at the crown. He walked with the gait of a miniature bear.
We exchanged pleasantries and, after eying my Bloody Mary a bit, I decided on one more. Bac ordered beer. The drinks had just been delivered when Bac looked up like a Pointer scenting quail. His boss had just walked through the gate.
“ Colonel come in,” he said.
He stood and waved.
Accompanying Colonel Duc was a tallish, slender Vietnamese man. They were already dressed in tennis togs. The man with the Colonel was, to my eye, not totally Vietnamese. His eyes, height and width of shoulders indicated that he was probably part French. He appeared to be the right age for that assumption.
Colonel Duc, though very cordial and friendly, had a part of him that always seemed remote and watchful. He had survived the partition of North and South Vietnam and intended to continue surviving.
“Mister Brinson, this is my good friend, Mr. Trinh,” Duc said.
Trinh spoke English with a bare trace of an accent. Those tiny inflections indicated what I later learned to be true. He had been educated in France. He was relaxed and friendly as he told us that he lived in Da Nang and worked for the government in the field of agricultural improvements. Despite his easy cordiality, he seemed to watch me carefully with a measure of good-natured amusement. The latter puzzled me at the time, but I put it down to an upper class Vietnamese man’s assessment of one-year-at-a-time warriors. American soldiers.
Both Duc and Trinh decided that I’d had a great idea and each ordered a Bloody Mary. We had been talking tennis for about ten minutes when Bac touched my arm. I followed his gaze to the gate.
The woman, Miss Song, dressed, this time in a vibrant yellow áo dài, came in the courtyard. All of the men at our table watched her—hell, all the men in the place watched her.
What she did next was astounding. She came directly to our table and took Trinh’s outstretched hand in both of hers.
“Good morning, Father,” she said.
CHAPTER 5
Much later, Song told me that I had managed to keep my mouth from dropping completely open.