Leeches

On Feb. 22, 1967, Air Cav Troop vehicles pulled from the convoy and into an open field somewhere west of Tay Ninh City. Our part of the convoy consisted of a quarter-ton carrying a driver and an officer, the troop supply truck, a vehicle maintenance section deuce-and-a-half, two JP-4 tankers, aircraft maintenance vehicles, and a five-ton truck loaded with ammunition for gunships, slicks and individual weapons – tens of thousands of rounds of 7.62mm linked for flex guns, door guns and Rifle Platoon M60s; 2.75-inch rockets for the gunships; 40mm linked for the nose-mounted grenade launchers; 5.56mm for M16 rifles; 40mm rounds for M79 single-shot grenade launchers; and some .45-caliber ammunition for officers and four rifle platoon machine gunners and four grenadiers.

The convoy for 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment left Blackhorse base camp before 1000 that morning and traveled 180 miles to Tay Ninh in six hours.

Aero Rifle Platoon had been deleted by about a dozen soldiers, when quick volunteers for door gunner positions were quickly accepted by the gunship and lift platoons. The rest of us, about 25, waited for an announced reorganization into LRRP, Long Range Reconnaissance Platoon.

The deuce-and-a-half carrying the remainder of the platoon pulled to a stop. The area had devastated by fire, maybe by Viet Cong eliminating a government-friendly village, maybe by ARVN soldiers after the village population was moved to a more secure area. Outlines in black showed where bamboo and thatch houses once stood, and black squares and rectangles indicated location of what had been rice paddies. Most of us thought destruction of the village was a bad thing, but we knew that war sucks.

We were hot and tired and very much covered with dust from riding six hours in a truck with canvas sides rolled up.

Somebody yelled, “Hey, there’s a well!” My squad clustered around the hole in the ground. Water was about four feet down.

In less than five minutes, SP4 Berry had his shirt off and 550 cord tied to his helmet strap and the helmet lowered to the water. The steel pot easily sank beneath the surface. Smiling at his own ingenuity, Berry brought up the water-filled helmet and emptied the water over his head.

Berry grinned as he washed dust from his hair and his face. He filled the helmet again and rinsed dust from his shoulders, chest and back. Somebody else took the helmet and cord and brought up more water. Soon, almost the entire squad was wet and happy.

As a young sergeant, my first thought was, “That water probably is not potable.” But, my soldiers were much happier clean than when covered with red dust.

Then, somebody yelled, “Connolly, there’s a leech on your back!”

Sure enough, a big dark gray slug-looking thing clung to Connolly’s back, below his shoulders and out of his sight. I don’t remember all of what Connolly said, but somebody quickly had a cigarette lit and held close to the leech. The slug dropped onto the ground, where at least two combat boots quickly smeared it into the wet ground.

A check of everyone who had dumped water over head and shoulders found no more leeches. I checked everybody as well.

“Well,” somebody said. “I guess that puts an end to that.”

Yep. If you are an infantry soldier and something good comes along, you can bet it comes with a price.

Lost

Things happen. You put a bunch of flying machines in the air, some will fall. AH-1G Cobra gunship tail number 67-15596 disappeared on 21 August 1968 and was found on 23 December 1968. The following report states the facts of recovery. 

"On 23 December 1968 at 1200 hours I (LT Tommy D. Mayfield) was notified by WO1 Soderlund of the Air Cavalry Troop of the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment that an AH-1G (Cobra) had been located in the jungle south east of Long Giao, RVN. WO1 Soderlund stated that he believed it was an AH-1G that had been missing from the 11th Armd Cav Regt since 21 August 1968. At this time I was notified that Major Bahnsen, the Air Cavalry Troop Commander, was waiting in an aircraft to fly me to the crash site. The site located at 48P YS 675 735 RVN, was thickly vegetated with a three canopy jungle. The nearest landing zone was 3/4 of a mile away. Major Bahnsen inserted me into the jungle at this point. I was met by a five man ARP team to provide security. I proceeded on foot from this point to the crash site. Upon arriving at the crash site, I noticed that there was dense undergrowth and that the aircraft was in a state of deterioration. The remains after four months were nothing but skeletons. I tried to identify the aircraft, but the tail section containing the aircraft number was missing, and the aircraft identification plate was not accessable. I obtained enough information from the generator, starter, and engine to later identify the AH-1G as 67-15596, belonging to the Air Cavalry Troop, 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment, missing since 1220 hours 21 August 1968 while on a flight from Vung Tau, RVN to Long Giao, RVN. I proceeded to take pictures of the aircraft using a 135 mm Minolta with black and white film."

P WO1 COLLINS DOUGLAS WOODROW KIA
C SP6 HAMILTON DICK DALE KIA

Sam Adams, Vietnam veteran

The latest edition of Thunder Run, newsletter for the 11th Armored Cavalry’s Veterans of Vietnam and Cambodia, says Sam Adams (Air Cav Troop, 1966-70) died in Lakewood, Ohio, in October 2015. That 1966-70 is correct. Sam must have found Vietnam more peaceful or meaningful or something, than the Cleveland he was from.

Sam was in the original Aero Rifle Platoon, assigned I think sometime in May 1966 while the regiment was still at Fort Meade, Md. When the platoon was reorganized into Long-Range Reconnaissance Platoon in early 1967 in Vietnam, Sam, as did a lot of us in the rifle platoon, declined to volunteer for the crazies. For some, the decision was, “Hey, the army already drafted me, sent me through 11B AIT, assigned me to an airmobile infantry platoon in an armored cavalry regiment, sent me to Vietnam, and now I’m expected to volunteer for LRRP?”

One night on ambush, while the Rifle Platoon still existed, I was beside a rubber tree, waiting for whatever might happen (or not happen), and all of a sudden a grenade goes “KA-WHUMP!”, dirt and twigs and leaves and stuff falling from the sky, and Sam is yelling, “I got him! I got him!” He had seen something/somebody moving in the dark darkness, too far out to be one of us, and it was moving, so he pulled the pin on a grenade and waited until the whoever was closer, and then he bowled the grenade along the ground. Throwing it, he explained at daylight, would have been too dangerous, because it might have hit a tree and come back. We didn’t find sign of anybody or any thing. No one was injured in the making of the ambush.

Sam was assigned to aviation maintenance after declining LRRP. At a reunion quite a few years ago, somebody asked when I was in RVN. I replied ’66 and ’67. The other man said, “You must have known Sam Adams.” I said I did, indeed. He said he was there in ’69-70 and Sam was still there. Sometime in 1970, he said, the army made Sam go home.

Sam was OK, entertaining, never at a loss for words. He made life interesting.

Gastrovacation

Eleven days, four hotels, one family reunion, one reunion of the 11th Armored Cavalry Veterans of Vietnam and Cambodia, from Florida to Alabama to Mississippi to Louisiana to Texas and return, several restaurants.

Willie’s Duck Diner – West Monroe, La. My wife had Miss Kay’s meat loaf, Miss Kay’s macaroni and cheese and standard turnip greens. You should know my wife makes the best-ever meat loaf and macaroni & cheese. We both decided she should send her recipes to Miss Kay. I had the seafood gumbo. The seafood consisted of shrimp and sausage. It was OK. Overall, the food was good, as was the service, but we will not be going out of our way to eat there again.

Cattleman’s Steakhouse – Texarkana, Ark. I think I ate there in 1969. My father talked about the place, but his ideas were more along the line that a steak house called Cattleman’s had something to do with real cattlemen. The restaurant does not have T-bone steak. The restaurant is across the street from Texas, but it does not serve T-bone steak. My wife and I had ribeye. The steaks were on the downside of warm. We shall not again grace the establishment with our presence.

Walburg German Restaurant – Walburg, Texas. You have to want to go there, and the drive is worth it. If you don’t know anything about German communities in Central Texas, do a search. The restaurant stocks many brands of beer, German and Texan-German. Food was good; service was excellent. Priscilla and I stayed to hear six songwriters perform. Each played amplified acoustic guitar; none was too loud. Go there.

Salt Lick BBQ – Driftwood, Texas. Great place. Go there. Simple seating, some outdoors under oak trees. The restaurant is several miles west of I-35, down a winding, two-lane highway. Much scenery, many new housing additions dotting the countryside. Pork ribs were great.

Ruth’s Chris Steak House, Grand Hyatt Hotel -- San Antonio, Texas. The restaurant proves some chains do things right. Steak very good, service very good. The hotel is a couple of blocks from the Alamo; the restaurant has outdoor seating near the Riverwalk.

The best food was at brother Bill and sister-in-law Teresa's house -- chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy and green beans; dessert Italian cream cake (from scratch) by sister Carolyn and World's best banana pudding from my wife.

Eleven days, around 2,500 miles. The good eats were very good.

Things drill sergeants said in basic training

I will be on you like ugly on a ape. (Yes, a ape.)

I will be on you like white on rice. (These days, using “white” in a disparaging remark would be OK; “rice” might have ethnic identity.)

I will be on you like stink on s**t.

You turdheads look like a monkey f’ng a football. (Visualization of the attempt brings no indication of why the act is remarkable in its ineptness.)

You turdheads are as f’ed up as a Chinese fire drill. (I have never seen a Chinese fire drill, and neither had any of the soldiers so addressed and am unable to understand the f’edupness.)

That was as f’d up as Hogan’s goat. (Again, I plead lack of education and know neither Hogan nor his goat.)

Regarding the monkey attempting sex with a football:

A soldier named Connelly was in the Aero Rifle Platoon at Fort Meade and in Vietnam. One night on ambush in a rubber plantation, Connelly was minding his own business, waiting for gooks to come down a trail and die, when a monkey jumped from a rubber tree and onto Connelly’s back. The monkey stated humping Connelly’s back pack**. When Connelly reacted in a negative manner, the monkey ran away and up another tree. That is the only instance I know of a monkey attempting sex with a back pack.

(**The back pack was the kind worn attached to a pistol belt and suspenders and generally known as a “butt pack,” since that was the part of the anatomy the pack bounced against when a soldier was running. So, more accurately, the monkey humped Connelly’s butt pack. However, I did not want to use the words “humping” and “butt” in so close proximity.)

Not A War Story

This happened in Vietnam, and was told as true, but it does not fit the strict parameters of A War Story.

A War Story: (a) has no moral, no axiom, no lesson learned; and, (b) at the end of A War Story, no one can ask, “What happened then?” In The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien gives as an example of A War Story: Three grunts are walking through the jungle. One trips a trip wire, and the trip wire is attached to the biggest explosive ever, tons of C4, two 500-pound bombs, four 155mm rounds. The blast blows up everything within a 100-meter radius – trees, bushes, monkeys, birds. The three grunts go flying into the air, and just before Finality, two look at the one who tripped the trip wire. “The fuck, man?” both say. The third shrugs, says, “Story of my life, man. Story of my life.”

See? No moral, no questions asked. Like if somebody says, “Why are you in Vietnam?” and the reply is “Story of my life, man. Story of my life.” That’s all there is.

This was in late December 1966, early January 1967. A platoon from one of the 11th Armored Cavalry’s tank companies was busting jungle with a cav troop, when a gook machine gun opens up from a bunker. ACAVs return fire -- M60 machine guns, .50-cals, M79s -- and the tanks join in with .50-cals and 90mm main guns. But this is a strong bunker, really strong, with big logs and sand bags – really thick. Everybody shoots at everybody else for a while, but neither side is getting the upper hand.

After a while, the TC on one of the tanks goes into “I’m tired of this shit” mode. He tells his driver to drive to the bunker. The driver goes as fast as terrain allows and then presses the brake pedal when the TC says, “Driver stop.” Machine gun bullets are bouncing off the tank, and you know the two or three gooks inside the bunker must be passing rice like there’s no tomorrow. And for them, there isn't.

With his TC override control, the TC lowers the main gun tube and says, “Driver forward. Slow.” The TC places the gun tube as close to the firing aperture as possible, says “Driver stop” and squeezes the trigger.

The man who relayed this story said, “Man, there was logs and dirt and gooks and shit flying everywhere!”

This has a moral, so it isn’t A War Story.

The moral is: Don’t fuck with a tank when all you’ve got is a machine gun.

Free fire zone 3

The last time I machine gunned the abandoned village was in the summer of 1967. I was door gunner on a UH-1D that day. The Huey went to Long Binh for some kind of delivery. On the way back to Blackhorse, the aircraft commander decided to give the crew chief and me a little gunner practice. He made three runs over the village at a higher than usual altitude. I emptied the ammunition can, firing every round from the M-60D machine gun. The crew chief had stoppages on all three passes.

By that date, the village was a mass of broken concrete blocks and red roof tiles. Not a single building or wall remained standing. Six months as a free fire zone target will do that.

Free fire zone 2

A couple of months after shooting up several roofs in the abandoned village, another gunship team went in to check gun and rocket sights alignment. The two ships made one pass each, and as the first ship went in for another run, some kind of smoke round streamed down about a hundred meters to the right.

“What is that?” the pilot of the trail gunship asked the team leader, who replied: “I don’t know, and we are not sticking around to find out.”

The two gunships quickly left the area and continued the assigned patrol.

Smart man, the team leader.

Free fire zone

An abandoned village sat in a large clearing northeast of Blackhorse base camp. The village consisted of half a dozen concrete block buildings with red tile roofs and a small Catholic Church building, also with red tile roof. The village was in a free-fire zone. That meant the area was so infested with Viet Cong that everyone had been suspect and relocated to a village under government control. Free fire zone also meant anyone could fire into the area at any time, no reason or approval required.

The village became a favored place to test helicopter machine guns and rockets following aircraft overhaul as well as evaluating new gunship pilots, and for registering artillery pieces.

One day in spring 1967, the gunship team leader in whose platoon I flew that day decided to test his two ships’ door guns and side mounted flex guns, six M-60 machine guns on each helicopter.

I learned that day: it is fun as hell, rolling into a number of concrete block buildings and firing a machine gun; and, roof tiles shatter when hit by 7.62mm slugs.

More critters

"I did not have my camera this day… darn. We were the 2nd Squadron Construction detail 1966-67 for Blackhorse, based at our lumber yard near the vehicle maintenance yard. Our 'carpenters' were demolishing a pallet floor of the HQ Troop, 2nd Squadron CO' s personal tent, when a hammer was snatched from a trooper’s hand as it swung beneath the floor. The trooper yelled and ran to the lumber yard for assistance. We [the yard crew] responded with some 2 by's and pried up the entire tent floor... Out came a KING cobra... It raised up and looked us eye to eye. Its head was 5' off the ground, so there was 10' on the ground! We started throwing 2by's at it, our only 'weapons'. Eventually we pinned it down with lumber and arriving troopers shot it. The arriving troopers then cut off its head. About then, the Regimental historian arrived and took official photos. We [the yard crew] just went back to work and the CO got a new, solid tent floor. Some wags suggested that we should have left the snake under the old floor!" – Dale Newcomb, G Troop.


"While point track one day, we knocked over a small tree. I could hear my gunners screaming at me and when I looked, they were pointing at the deck. I looked down and through one of the periscope holes in the side armor I saw a Mister No Shoulders coming through. He was not a happy camper. It was about 10-12 inches long, gray and his has all puffed up.

"I figured if you want it, Sucker, you can have it, and backed out of the TC hatch. The snake dropped inside the track about the time I was telling my driver to come on up to the top of the track.

"We did finally get rid of him, not sure if they killed him or just evicted him from the track." – Jack Morrison, A Troop and Air Cav Troop

Stories from 11th Armored Cavalry's Veterans of Vietnam and Cambodia web site.

Hey, dipstick!

Yesterday I searched “images xuan loc” on Bing. Some references were to “11th Armored Cavalry Vietnam,” so I searched for Blackhorse pictures.

One picture was as good a representation of combat photography you will ever see – A soldier, had not shaved in two days, blondish mustache, dirty face. He wore a flak jacket and had a Blackhorse patch on his left shoulder.

The look on the man’s face was of pure pissoff, anger, disgust and maybe a little sense of futility. The face was that of a soldier Charlie better not pop up yelling “Chieu hoi, chieu hoi!” He’d be a dead Charlie if he even made an appearance, because that Blackhorse soldier was in “no prisoner” mode.

So you’ve got a pissed off, disgusted soldier, but the real pissoff was the caption: “Walk proud, Marine.”

What???

The referenced site was somebody’s dedication to our brave service men and service women who go the extra yard and yada yada. There were photographs and writings, and the writings say (in effect) “I don’t know what I’m talking about, but here are photos of brave Americans who do the jobs most of us can’t do …” ad nauseam.

Dipstick.

Hey, there was a war going on

In the summer of 1967 the flight operations officer one day said, “Sgt. Merriman, a helicopter is going to Vung Tau today at 1400 and I don’t want to see you for three days.” Vung Tau was a former French resort city at Cape St. Jacque.

I spent my two-plus days enjoying the sight of the ocean, meals in a real restaurant and the low cost of beer.

On the third day I went to the airstrip and asked to use a phone to call base camp to find out when my ride would arrive. A Vietnamese woman showed me to an office.

Now, at base camp we were in the partly Stone Age in telephoning. A caller picked up the phone and waited and after a while someone at the main switchboard would plug in and say “Long Gaio” and the caller would say “Blackhorse Three-Zero,” or whatever.

So I was in the office at the airstrip. I picked up the phone. I waited for an operator. And waited. And waited.

The woman in the office walked over and gave me a “You dumba$$ Americans” look, stuck a finger in the O and slowwwly turned the dial, all the time giving me that look.

I felt like a dumba$$ American.

I mean, I had traveled all the way across the Pacific to save the Vietnamese from the perils of Communism, but I didn’t know how to dial a freaking telephone.