Chapter 6 Hopelessness Reigns

     The month of February was filled with a lot of disjointed memories. While we were guarding a road, where the jungle had not been cleared away from the edge of the road, I remember writing home to my mother. I mentioned how senseless our missions seemed to be because we returned again and again to the same areas, and nothing changed for the better. As I was sitting there writing, I could hear an approaching convey. Suddenly, there was a large explosion directly behind me. It happened just as an APC went by. I could feel the blast and see pieces of metal fall to the ground around me. The APC had obviously been blown apart by a large mine in the road, or maybe a sapper with an RPG. I wasn't able to see anything and couldn't leave my position. Others responded. Everyone in the vehicle was probably killed. The vehicle itself was destroyed. People soon cleared the damaged vehicle off the road so traffic could get moving again. As the year went on these types of things happened more often.  

    I remember another day when we were walking through open countryside and since we always seemed to be short of water, we were knocking coconuts off some coconut trees. We were short on drinking water and the juice of those coconuts was very satisfying. Soon, Sergeant Rook interrupted us and made everyone stop. He thought that they might be booby trapped. However, that was highly unlikely. Even a communist gets thirsty and hungry, and he certainly doesn't want to kill his own people. We all knew this, but it was senseless to argue with Sergeant Rook. He took all feedback as a personal affront to his person. By now, everyone knew his little rebukes were copied from his make-believe hero, “Sergeant Stryker” in the movie, "Sands of Iwo Jima". Walker and I got into the habit of just looking at each other and shaking our heads. Years later, I realize that Sergeant Rook had not been given the leadership training he needed to effectively communicate. As far as I know, there was no such training available until years later when people like Lt. General Lawson Magruder decided to change that. For the most part, it was truly the blind leading the blind.   

    Another time, the idea of sleeping in a hammock, rather than the hard ground really caught on fast. I bought one from a civilian vendor but only used it a couple times. It didn’t take long for me to realize on my own that it wasn’t safe to sleep above the ground. Random firing into our perimeter was a common occurrence. If one was sleeping in a hammock then his chances of being hit were greatly increased. That danger should have been recognized much more quickly than it was. I wonder how many soldiers had to die before it was recognized as being dangerous. Not only allowing but encouraging feedback can catch situations like that much faster and save lives. Yet, while I was in Vietnam, I never had one of my immediate superiors ask for my input on anything. I also now know that wasn’t their fault. It was the Army’s fault for not teaching them the rudiments of good leadership.    

    One day we marched single file deeper into the area just west of the northern most tip of the Iron Triangle. Operation “Cedar Falls had been over for at least two weeks, or maybe more. We were now in a free kill zone which simply meant we could shoot anyone we saw. There were no civilians to be seen anywhere. After studying old maps, I believe that we were near the Hobo Woods. We were on the western side of the Saigon River across from some abandoned rice fields. The northern edge of those rice fields were near the destroyed village of Ben Suc. However, my unit never saw the village and never realized that it had even been evacuated, and then destroyed. I am sure a few officers may have known exactly what happened but the men in my unit had no idea. The entire population in that area had been relocated further south on the Saigon River. While we acted as a blocking force to protect Saigon, five other battalions of the First Infantry Division and the 25th Infantry Division were actually involved in sealing off the village and helping with the removal of civilians.

    When Operation Cedar Falls ended January 26, 1967, 6,000 residents of Ben Suc had been removed with their belongings from the area. They were relocated about 20 miles further south to a refugee center near the town of Phu Cuong. Many of these people were rice farmers, which begs the following question. What were they supposed to do now? Ben Suc, the largest hamlet in the area, was burned to the ground and the enemy tunnel complex located underneath was destroyed by dropping the biggest bombs we had on top of it. “Common sense” should also make one want to ask another question. What would be a good way to turn 6,000 folks into lifetime enemies? Wouldn’t at least one way be to forcibly remove them from the only home they had ever known and then destroy that home? Wouldn't another way be to prevent them from earning a living through the only employment they had ever known? Then, just to be sure that they would hate you forever, why not force them to live solely on handouts from the government?

     Some military reports bragged about transporting the hamlet's water buffalo to the new refugee center. Yeah, you heard me right! The U.S. Army loaded up their water buffaloes and shipped them out to the new refugee center. Now what in the world were the farmers of Ben Suc supposed to do with their water buffaloes now that they had no land to farm? And how were they going to feed them? For those readers who may not know, water buffalo were the Vietnamese "tractor" used to work the land.

     Common sense cannot help but tell anyone who has half a brain that these 6,000 people would now have nothing but time on their hands to think about what had just happened to them. Isn’t it conceivable that many of those 6,000 folks might be mad enough to desire to get even with the people who had done this to them? I feel very fortunate that God shielded me and the other men in my battalion from becoming directly involved in Operation Cedar Falls. By the way, our First Division Commander, Major General DePuy wanted to skip this operation, altogether, and encircle the enemy's base camps further north. That would have been a much logical move, providing greater opportunity to capture the entire COSVN (Central Office South Vietnam) leadership. However, that bold initiative was overruled by DePuy’s boss but the choice to overrule it was ultimately Westmoreland’s.    

      The COSVN was a very small cadre of top Communist leaders operating at this time in the Iron Triangle area south of Ben Suc. They used the many tunnel complexes as their hideouts and were the brains behind the communist political machine. They planned and coordinated the takeover, not just of Saigon, but all of South Vietnam. They would move from complex to complex in the area to avoid capture. If this very small number of top Communist officials could have been caught or killed that would have put a big dent in the communist operations. The South Vietnamese government also presented a problem. It was extremely corrupt and should have been replaced with a provisional government as was done in Germany and Japan after World War II. Operation Cedar Falls was a joint operation with the South Vietnamese, so the communist spies knew all about it before we did. That gave the COSVN plenty of time to skedaddle further north to their other sanctuaries in War Zone C and D.

      To all schooled in world affairs, it became apparent that we Americans would be leaving Vietnam at some point. Why? Because it was obvious that we weren't in it to win it. If we had really cared that much about winning, we would have taken the time to identify our real adversaries, which was the communist political machine and to a lesser degree a corrupt South Vietnamese government. One must identify one's adversary before a plan can be formulated to create the necessary steps to dismantle that adversary. That adversary may not always be just the army arrayed against one’s own army in the field. However, by the sixties, America was straying far from moorings of enlightened leadership. Our leaders became sidetracked fighting a totally industrial war, which temporarily pumped up our own economy. The motivation to move in that direction is understandable, however. Nothing in life is free. Someone somewhere has to pay the price. To think otherwise is to be very naive. Operations, like Cedar Falls evolved into big battle campaigns a little later in the year. We won almost all of these, but so what? The average South Vietnamese family was not provided with even less security and freedom then when we fired our first shot.  

     Now, fast forwarding, it was probably more than a month since Operation Cedar Falls had ended and on this particular day our unit was still combing the general area West of the Iron Triangle, looking for any enemy units which could have been displaced and hiding in places like the Hobo Woods. I didn't realize it yet, but I would soon be getting a grunt's eye view of an enormous enemy tunnel complex.

      These tunnels were an interesting phenomenon. We Americans had very little understanding of their importance. They weren't just holes in the ground. They were an extension of the shadow government, itself, which controlled the South Vietnamese people. We gassed them. We blew them up. We sent tunnel rats down into them, to investigate, but we did not understand them. You see, these tunnels were home to the warlocks which came out at night to terrorize the South Vietnamese people. I now realize that those warlocks, hiding away beneath the earth, were the reason for the strained smiles on people's faces each time we questioned them at a check point. We simply didn't understand. We were very much self-absorbed and focused only on our high-tech tools of war, as the way to win. How could these deep, dark, and dirty hand-dug tunnels, be anything but a nuisance?

     The Communist had been digging and expanding these tunnels for years. There were actually thousands of miles of them and enough hollowed out chambers below the ground to provide cover, housing, storage, and offices to support the logistics requirements for large well organized communist operations in the South. They provided storerooms for rice, storerooms for weapons, hospital facilities and even weapons manufacturing facilities. These tunnels had been continually expanded since the 1950’s when the Viet Minh were fighting the French. The civilian youth in the area were made to work on their expansion and upkeep. They were required to meet a digging quota of so many feet a day by the Communist shadow government. Civilian youth of villages like Ben Suc and Cu Chi were also made to attend political indoctrination classes in the evenings. Today some of those same tunnels around Chu Chi have been turned into tourist attractions. 

    One day, instead of guarding a road all day long, we made a sweep through an area where there were only small trees and a lot of thick dense bamboo and other smaller jungle growth. An armored unit was with us. They followed as we cleared the woods in front of them. I believe it was elements of the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. This was slow hot work. Although I had started walking point a couple times for my squad, I was not walking point today. My squad was in the middle of the formation, which made it a little easier and a lot less dangerous. It was extremely hot, so we were glad to stop and set up a perimeter around noon. Word came down that we were getting a hot meal flown out which was really good news. We had been eating only C-rations for several days.   

    Very soon, the sound of a helicopter could be heard descending into a clearing somewhere nearby. Everyone stopped what they were doing and immediately perked up. A grunt could fall asleep almost anywhere during a five-minute break, but the sound of those beating chopper blades made sleepy eyes open wide. A couple guys who had been lying on their backs snoring immediately jumped to their feet. Why? Because the arrival of that chopper meant that a hot meal was on its way. However, I never flinched. I just kept leaning back on my ruck sack steadily observing the other members of my squad. That experience at the bunkers had really made me realize that I needed to take a closer look at everything and everyone. Gone was my desire to accept and be accepted in return. Out of this bunch, who could I really count on in a pinch? I now realized that's what I should concern me, and not who liked who.  Walker was the only name that came to mind.

     My M-14 rifle was cradled in my right arm with the butt touching the ground between my legs and the end of the barrel pointing over my right shoulder. For brief stops while on the march I always sat on my steel pot, but not today. Today, had been a long hot walk. Now, I was willing to chance a sting or two from black ants to become more comfortable. I had spread the lower part of my body flat on the ground, with the upper part of my body propped up by my rack sack. It was a very comfortable position, and I could have slept like this all night. After the bunker debacle, I had added an M-72 rocket launcher to my wares. I tied it outside and crossways to the lower part of my ruck sack. A brand-new poncho and new poncho liner were the bulkiest items stored inside that ruck sack. I had acquired them just before we started on this present outing. Later, during the rainy season, I would add an air mattress to the items stored inside. Extra hand grenades were also a must.  

    As I rested, our squad radio occasionally crackled and popped. I feared ever having to talk on that thing. My perfectionist mindset ran wild imagining the humiliation which would come, as a result of the stuttering and stammering which I would no doubt do if I ever had to use one. Furthermore, the gigantic inferiority complex which I carried around could never handle any criticism which was sure to come from the other end of my transmissions. No sir, I didn't need that olive drab box to make me feel any worse about myself than I already felt. I avoided being near those contraptions every change I got.    

    Chow was here but I had absolutely no intention of heading for the chow line. Instead, I would wait so I could be one of the last ones in line. That would give me a much better chance of getting the servers to give me double portions. What was left over would have to be thrown out anyway. It was a great strategy and one that had often worked. However, the ornithologist in Sargent Rook had evidently been keeping a close watch on "rare birds' like me. “Wade”, he yelled, “Go get in line”! Although there were other squad members milling around near me, this was clearly a shot over my bow and my bow alone. There was no, “Hey guys, go get in line”. There was simply just one sharp blast aimed directly at me. I responded by putting on the best "pretense" that I could muster. My reply sounded good to me, and I delivered it in a cool calm voice. I thought that sounded good too. I explained how I didn’t mind holding down our position while the rest of the squad went to eat. To me, this reply rang of selfless sacrifice. How could Sergeant Rook ever know that it was also disingenuous. That reply should have made him come down off his high horse, but it didn't. “Wade”, he yelled, “I am not telling you again. Go get in line!” He sounded really angry this time. It was pretty embarrassing. After all, I wasn't a recruit. I was a grown man. But what could I do? There was nothing left to do, but roll off my ruck sack, stand up with my M-14 rifle clutched in my right hand, and start walking in the direction of the chow line. At the same time, I felt my temper rise and then subside as I was able to remind myself of two things. Number one was that one more day of my one-year prison sentence was almost over. Secondly, I reminded myself that Sergeant Rook was truly a Neanderthal, who really didn’t know any better. 

    When I arrived at the end of the chow line the insulated food canisters had been placed on the tracks of a parked tank and people were helping themselves. This was great! I could help myself to double portions without having to ask. That was already taking away some of the agitation caused by Sgt. Rook’s rude behavior. It only took a couple minutes to get my food and head back into my squad area to continue my sojourn with good ole Sargent Rook.  As I turned to retrace my steps, I looked over my shoulder at the tank gun. It was pointed down what looked to be a recently cleared path which was a little wider than the tank itself. I instinctively glanced down the length of that cleared path for any signs of movement. Checking out my surroundings was just something that my dad had taught me to always do.  

    I passed Winstead on the way back to my position. We grunted at each other. He was in another platoon, but he would have definitely been the second man on my list of trusted Compadres if he had only been in my platoon. Dennis Winstead had also grown up with a love of hunting wild game back in Virginia. He was a great shot with a rifle and was in great physical condition. He and I had breezed through basic training and as I said before we were the only two people in our training platoon to be picked to become 11B10 riflemen. His situational awareness was second to none and he was "fixin" to prove it. 

    This would be the only meal that I would eat today and actually the hot meals we got in the field were excellent. When I returned to my position, I squatted down beside my ruck sack. Then, I carefully laid my rifle across it to keep the barrel out of the dirt. Next, I pulled off my steel helmet and laid it upside down beside the ruck sack. I sat down on that and began eating. I used the helmet as a seat this time because I wanted to make absolutely sure that I wouldn’t be interrupted by a stinging black ant. If that happened, it could cause me to spill my food all over the ground. After eating most of my meal I started feeling pretty good again. I felt even better when I remembered that my squad had no ambush patrol tonight. I grabbed my entrenching tool and looked for the softest spot of ground to dig a swallow hole so I could bury my paper plate and my scrapes of food. Several other guys saw what I was doing and robotically walked over and dropped their trash in the hole which I had just dug. This could very well be the makings of one more very hot, tiring, and boring day. The hot meal was definitely the highlight but "boring" was good too. I was finally learning how to appreciate a day like this. If Rook would transfer to another job, I was sure I could appreciate my life as a grunt even more.     

      In the meantime, Winstead was going through the chow line at the tank. About the same time that I was burying my trash, Dennis had worked his way through that line and was standing at the front right edge of the tank. I am sure his mouth was watering and just as sure that he couldn’t wait to get back to his position inside the wood line so he could "chow down". However, that wasn’t to be. Winstead wouldn't go hungry, but he would be eating C-Rations, instead of the hot meal he was holding in his hand.

    While the other guys in the line behind Dennis were intently focused on scooping food onto their plates, Dennis noticed something. He had been conditioned from childhood to continually “check his six”. He now noticed something in his peripheral vision toward that "six". Any skilled hunter will tell you that he or she instinctively uses their peripheral vision to detect movement in a radius as far out and as far around as possible. This was an ingrained habit with Winstead. He now detected movement about a hundred meters or so down the cleared path to the front of the big tank's gun.

    At the same time, I was squatting down beside my ruck sack and after burying my trash, another man in my platoon, named “Porky Morton” was about to get the fright of his life. He was sitting in his position with the rest of his squad around him and no more than thirty meters away from me. While blissfully chowing down on his hot meal, he saw two arms rise out of the ground and each arm flung two little black objects toward him. Of course, “Porky’s” plate of food went flying as he jumped to his feet and turned to run. Everyone else who saw it did the same. The black objects were Chicom grenades and the blast from one lifted “Porky” off his feet and propelled him forward causing him to land flat on his face. One piece of shrapnel went through “Porky’s” ample right buttocks. Other than that, he was okay. The Explosion was heard by everyone. People like me who were close by hit the dirt.

    In the meantime, just before that first grenade exploded, Winstead was taking action. The movement he saw was definitely a man in black pajamas. Dennis never hesitated. In one fluid motion, he stepped clear of the tank, dropped to one knee and at the same time raised his rifle to his shoulder. The paper plate of food went flying, landing upside down in the dirt beside him. That didn’t matter because the business at hand had become much more important. He now realized that he was looking at a Cong running toward the tank with a grenade in each hand. The Cong also had an M-1 carbine slung over his back. Many Cong carried these at this time instead of the AKs which became more prevalent later in the year. The kneeling Dennis Winstead now had the butt of his rifle pressed firmly against his right shoulder with his left hand holding the stock while his left elbow rested solidly just forward of his left knee cap. An appreciation of the quick skill involved in Dennis’s reaction to the threat could have been lost on a casual observer but in reality, it had taken years to perfect. What may have seemed natural was really the practiced craft of handling a rifle since childhood. Others around him were much slower to react and were somewhat confused at first. Several wondered why he had thrown his plate of food in the air. They had not yet seen the Cong charging the tank. Would the Cong have made it to the tank if Winstead had not been there? I can’t answer that question. I can say that it was an easy shot for Winstead especially since the man was running straight toward him. He carried an M-14 that could either shoot one shot at a time or with flip of a small lever it could fire fully automatic. In this case, one shot at a time was better. Breathing out and holding his breath after quickly lining up the front and back sights on the mid-section of the Cong, he squeezed the trigger. The man instantly dropped dead in full stride, sliding a little ways across the ground as the thirty-caliber full metal jacket bullet passed through his chest and hit the hard laterite ground behind him causing a little spark. This threat was now eliminated but it was not over, not by a long shot. The tank crew scurried up the side of the tank and into the hatches to assume their battle positions. Food canisters went flying off the right track of the armored beast as it lurched forward a couple feet. One container bounced by Winstead’s head just as he was rising to his feet.

    For the next thirty minutes or so there was sporadic gun fire throughout the battalion area punctuated every now and again by exploding grenades, as Cong popped out of their "spider holes" to throw hand grenades, in various locations within our perimeter. It soon became very apparent that we had accidently established our entire battalion’s position directly on top of a massive tunnel complex which had protective one man “spider holes” running throughout the area. Later, it would become a well-known fact that tunnels in this area were as much as three stories deep and served as command control and planning centers for all COSVN activities in the region north of Saigon. These nerve centers kept intelligence records, produced printed propaganda materials for indoctrinating the South Vietnamese and were responsible for the coordinated mortars attacks on Saigon which welcomed me to the country as well as the sapper attack which wiped out our mechanized recon patrol on January 9th.    

    It was a chaotic scene for a few minutes. I stayed put, laid low and waited, as did the rest of the guys in my squad. The enemy had obviously gotten nervous when we accidently camped for lunch on top of his home. Whoever was in charge of the Cong had then hastily put together this plan of attack, hoping to cause confusion among our ranks, and it seemed to be working. However, I am not sure that it was the best plan on their part. It was highly unlikely that we would have discovered this tunnel complex if the people hiding inside it had just laid low and waited for us to move on. There were no raised bunkers or other obvious signs anywhere to give their location away.

     It soon became apparent that there was no standard operating procedure (SOP) for dealing with a situation like this. So, Denton was left to address the problem in whatever way he thought best. Coming up with solid tactical ideas on the spot was not his strong suit. He was in good company because it seems his superiors didn’t have a clue either.  

    Things became muddled in a hurry. I and a few other individuals from different squads were the "lucky" winners chosen to "come on down" and play the game of "Muddle Mania". As I have already mentioned, Lt. Col. Denton was a very brave person when it came to standing his ground in extremely life-threatening situations. He had already proven that in Korea. But he had also proven something else at those bunkers in January. He had proven that he had absolutely no aptitude for the job. Whether one is at the helm of a fortune five hundred company, a mom-and-pop operation, or a combat battalion, that person must possess an aptitude for the job.

     Obviously, we needed to move, so Denton ordered us to withdraw. Everyone around me started rounding up their gear and prepared to move out, looking suspiciously at the jungle floor around them as they did so. However, just as it had happened before at the enemy bunkers, shortly after making that decision, the fog of war seemed to settle like a thick black mist upon those involved in our unit’s decision-making process. I have no idea who came up with the next move, whether that was Denton or someone higher up in Brigade, but it was half baked at best.      

    After assembling together with the rest of my platoon, Sergeant Rook walked up to me with a stony look on his face. He was returning from a huddle with our platoon leader, whoever that was. Rook now singled me out for the second time in one day. The first time turned out to be a good call. This time it seemed he had a much more clandestine reason for choosing me and me only. I will never know what that reason was, but it wasn’t good. I do know one thing. Rook did not pick me because he thought I was the best man for the job. He picked me because there was some kind of deep-rooted hatred in his heart for people like me.     

    Unable to look me in the eyes, Rook uttered the last words that he would ever say to me. “Wade report to the commander of those tanks over there”, he pointed. As I remember the tanks were setting pretty much in the same place where they had been setting when the shooting started. The rest of my fellow squad members disappeared with the battalion. Now, I found myself standing in the midst of a little group of no more than 20 11B10 riflemen like me who were total strangers to me as well as each other. They had also been singled out. We were told by a buck sergeant, whom we had never seen before, to line up in a single line about a 100 meters wide and wait until the tanks ran over and mashed down the jungle growth, in an area about the size of a football field. So, that is exactly what we did. It was an easy job for the tank and APC crews because they were heavy enough to smash down the small trees and bamboo groves which consisted of nothing larger than 3- or 4-inch stuff. It was also a relatively safe job for them because they had those deadly 50 cal. Machine guns at the ready. However, what they had planned for us afterward was anything but safe.

   After the foliage had been flattened, we were told to spread out in a single line perhaps 60 or 70 meters long. The armor would then follow behind us. As we started to slowly move forward, I had plenty of time to think. This was the second time under Denton that I had been separated from my squad while on an operation. The first time was while pulling road guard duty, which I have already mentioned. No combat soldier likes to be singled out to work with complete strangers. This is a given. I was beginning to trust the members of my squad in the field to respond in predictable ways. I cannot stress how important that trust is. I never got to know any of them personally, but I did know them well enough to know what I could expect from them. I had never been a part of any organized group of any kind. I was the consummate loner. My combat squad was really my only experience working with others on a real job. I had other jobs, but for the most part I worked alone in those jobs. Basic training was temporary. It wasn’t designed to make anyone feel a part of anything. Against all reason, my squad had become important to me since I was not going to be allowed to go home. Now, I was being thrust into a very dangerous situation with complete strangers. I felt like I was the only guy in the entire country who was going to war with the enemy. Any good feelings that I was starting to develop were gone in an instant. As I stood there listening to diesel engines and the crunching of jungle foliage under the tracks of these armored vehicles, a dark hopeless feeling began to flood over me. I had no idea what the guy on my left or right was going to do. If we ran into trouble, he had no idea what I would do. Would he hesitate too long pulling the trigger? Would he become trigger happy and shoot me if a Cong got between me and him? These were the kinds of questions running through my head.

    The dehumanizing way we were being commanded to perform this relatively small action was just a symptom of much bigger problems, but I had no way of knowing that. It’s a good thing I didn’t know, or I would have lost my mind.  How could someone come up with orders to assemble strangers from the far-flung corners of the battalion, who had never worked together? Then, to top it off, put us under the command of a mechanized unit commander? That was “nuts". It's very important to know that the other guy "has your back". The mechanized unit commander was using a megaphone. The entire thing seemed surreal to me.

     Nevertheless, it was time to put one foot in front of the other and start concentrating on my surroundings. Moving forward online line wasn’t easy. We had to climb over and under a tangled mess of bamboo as well as other small trees and bushes which had been squashed by the big tanks and APCs. As we moved forward, I heard a burst of gunfire coming from the right end of the line. I knew better than to turn my head to take a closer look and risk the danger of not seeing, what might pop up in front of me. So, I just concentrated on scanning an area from the man on my left to the man on my right and about ten yards out. I could hear one of the armored vehicles to my rear take off in the direction of the gunfire. I used my peripheral vision to stay lined up with guys on my right and left. We slowly moved forward. I had gone maybe fifty yards when it happened. A dark human form popped out of a patch of flat ground about ten yards in front of the guy to my left. It was a Cong. He slung two grenades upward into the air. They landed between that guy and me. While the grenades were still in the air and half of the Cong’s body was still exposed, the guy to my left instinctively let loose with a three-round burst from his M-16. I barely had time to dive face down on my belly to minimize the effects of the grenade blasts. As I was falling forward, I saw one of the bullets from the M-16 strike the Cong in the face. I saw a little piece of something flying from the back of his head. He fell backward into the hole. In those days we weren’t taught to continually shoulder our weapons while investigating a threat. This soldier had shot from the hip. I am sure that it was purely coincidence that he hit the Cong with a bullet to the head.    

    Now, the tank behind us saw the action and started moving toward the uncovered spider hole. When the driver got within about 10 yards the tank commander traversed the big gun downward and fired into the mouth of the hole at point blank range. I have always thought that this was a really dumb move. I do remember that there was no explosion as the shell hit the top of the ground close to the entrance of the spider hole. The impact sent red laterite dirt flying in all directions. The tank then spun around again and again tearing up the ground where the spider-hole entrance was located and covered up everything so that it was impossible to tell where the entrance had been. "Oh yeah, that'll show em". I thought to myself, "How stupid"!  

    Shortly after this incident happened, our single line advance suddenly halted, although I heard no orders from anyone to do so, I followed along and stood as still as a rock.. The grunts from both ends of the line started walking toward the tank, which had now come to a standstill about ten yards to my right. Several APCs then positioned themselves around the tank and we were given orders to get aboard. After everyone was aboard and sitting on top of the APCs, away we went. We traveled down a dirt road. No one said a word while we were being transported to our destination. From the leader of this little band of misfits, to the lowest ranking soldier, the feeling was the same. It was an anticlimactic moment with the general feeling being that we had accomplished nothing. The blank matter-of-fact stares on our faces, as our bodies rocked back and forth on the APCs, said it all.

      As we rode, those sweaty bodies accumulated more and more smears and smells of red earth on what use to be olive drab uniforms. We resembled a picture not unlike that of a bunch of earthy convicts, who were riding their farm equipment back from a day of toiling to make little rocks out of big rocks. At least our sentence would be reduced by one more day if we were not blown up on the way to our cells for the night.  

    The Communist shadow government in the South would soon return to use these same tunnels and others just like them. They had a three-prong tragedy for taking control of South Vietnam. One was by military force. One was the operation of a shadow government through political initiatives, including every type of atrocity imaginable. The third was educational indoctrination of the youth. By the way, people with the same goals as the communist in South Vietnam are working hard to conquer America today. They are becoming much more sophisticated in their techniques.

     We grunts had no idea what became of those tunnels. I couldn't help but ask myself why our lives had been put at risk for a bunch of tunnels that we were now going to just abandon without any further ado? We grunts had no idea what the next logical step would be, but it wasn’t very hard for even the brain of a naive nineteen old like me to understand that there were still enemy soldiers hiding in this massive complex of tunnels. Were we now just driving off and leaving them to their own devices?  Years later I learned that the Central Office South Vietnam (COSVN) high command used tunnels just like these as their command headquarters to make a final push into Saigon. I cannot help but wonder whether those were the same tunnels.         

    I remember being driven through the gates of a compound where we were reunited with our individual platoons and squads after being ordered to stay at the tunnels. I believe the name of our destination was a place named Phu Loi. The compound where the mechanized unit dropped us off was completely walled in by at least twelve-foot-high buildings on all sides. It looked a little like modern day parking garage.

     The growing uneasiness which I had been experiencing started to lift even before I learned of some welcome surprises. The first uplifting surprise hit me square in the face soon after jumping off that idling “clickety-clack APC”, which I had rode in on. Sergeant Rook was gone for good. Alleluia! A couple new guys had joined my squad too. I never found out what happened to Rook but in that moment, “Who cared”? In his place was a five foot nine, sandy-haired, blue-eyed E-6 with a pleasant smile on his face. His name was Sergeant Bartee, and he was from Roanoke Virginia. Roanoke was just a few miles down the road from my Grandfather's farm. Our new squad leader, Sergeant Bartee, unlike Sgt. Rook, had not come from another combat unit. He was as "fresh as a daisy" and new to combat altogether. This fact instantly elevated us "ole guys" to a position of respect with him. We would soon learn also that Bartee just naturally had a much easier going way about him. I instantly liked him, and I never liked that other guy. What was his name? It had turned into a good day Afterall. There were also a hot meal waiting on us prepared by "Tiny", himself. Make no mistake, our cooks were highly respected by us grunts in the 1/18th Infantry Battalion. There were showers and clean clothes to boot so let the good times roll.  

    Almost instantly after meeting the new guys, the mood of the entire squad changed. With Rook gone, Walker and I, simply by virtue of being the oldest guys, were now in a position to set the stride of our squad with number one priority to see that we all made it out alive. Respect for one another was also very important. We also had a new platoon leader. He was a West Point graduate. He had a very uplifting manner about him, more so than any officer I had come in contact with thus far. He actually talked to us like we were human beings. I do not know how he handled combat, because he was only with us two weeks before taking over our unit's recon platoon. However, I can remember him being instantly liked by almost the entire platoon, including our sergeants. The demeanors of our NCOs changed remarkably while he was with us. They displayed a much-improved disposition. This was evident in the way they passed down routine orders. For the first time the new Lieutenant addressed the entire platoon with a very upbeat pip talk. My nineteen-year-old mind was feeling the joy. Everyone else in the squad was feeling good too. To top things off, another very friendly older draftee named Bill Milliron from Santa Barbara, California was among the new recruits. He was twenty-six and way ahead of the rest of us nineteen-year-olds in his ability to get his way. I would soon learn that the wheels were always turning in Bill’s head even when he was knapping. I instantly liked him. So did everyone else. It really was quite amazing how morale in the unit had turned on a dime.

    Not only was the food welcomed at this place but so was the showers. They were rigged under some hastily installed water tanks made from bomb shells. We also got sundry supplies and letters and packages from home. I got an applesauce cake from my mother. The next operation, “Operation Junction City”, would last from February 22nd until May 14th so the showers and clothes would have to last us almost three months. "Junction City" would go down in history as the largest ground operation of the war. The Communist spies in Saigon already knew a lot about it before it ever got off the ground. For now, however, clean clothes, hot meals and no perimeter guard was as good as it would get for my squad as well as the entire battalion for the rest of the year. 

     During this down time, it didn’t take very long at all for Sergeant Bartee and Bill Milliron to “buddy up” to one another. They had three things in common which helped speed up that bonding process. They were both about the same age. They both loved alcohol and they also loved "pot". Because they had these three things in common I suppose it was only natural for Bartee and Milliron to hit it off right away. However, their friendliness with each other was extended to the rest of the squad too. It was a good thing all the way around. Another one of the new guys, from Kentucky, was Glen Bowman. He was quiet and stuck close to me at first but after a couple days he started really warming up to the gregarious Milliron. So did everyone else in the squad, including me. Glen was my age. He was every bit as withdrawn as me, but with one exception. When the affable Milliron would say something pleasant about home, Glen would break out in an easy-going smile. Now, a smile makes all the difference in the world, but it would take years for me to realize that. You see, I never smiled. It wasn’t because I didn’t feel like smiling sometimes. In my case, not smiling had a lot to do with having extremely crooked teeth. I was very ashamed of the way they made me look when I did smile. Little did I know that not smiling sometimes made people feel uneasy around me. Smiles are important and can have a powerful effect on others. Not smiling can also have a powerful effect, just not the kind most of us would like.

     For Glen and me there seemed to be nothing to do while staying in this place but eat and sleep. Bill and Bartee were more adventurous. On the second day they disappeared from the squad area for quite a while. When they returned, they had goofy smiles on their faces which I can see in my mind’s eye even today. Bill walked over to where I was sitting and laid down in the dirt beside me and then rolled over on his back. During our time together this would become his signature move after returning from each of his little forays into sin. He seemed especially drawn to me for some reason. Most guys his age projected a critical attitude toward guys my age, expecting them to forever be proving themselves, but that aggravating characteristic was missing with Bill. The entire time that I was with him in the squad, he always had a calm easy-going demeanor around everyone. Although he would become known as the “ole man” to the rest of us, he never let his more mature mind come between him and the rest of the squad. Many times, in these relationships, the older guy will use their greater degree of life experience to try to control younger guys. Bill didn't do that unless you count winning at poker. He did seem to win a lot. Yes, everyone liked Bill, including Bartee. Because I liked him, it was somewhat enjoyable for me to listen to him. He often rambled on about “little or nothing”. On this first occasion, while Bill laid on his back beside me, rambling on, Bartee stood beside us looking somewhat zombiefied. He had that same goofy look that Bill had on his face. Then, without saying a word, he turned and walked toward his RTO leaving Bill lying beside me. Bowman was sitting on my other side taking it all in. I had been around drunks before, but this was different. Later Bill explained to me what "whacky tobacco" was. He may have shown me his supply at some point.  I can’t remember. Bill, I believe, was the first person ever to roll one in front of me. I wonder now if he realized how bad I considered that habit to be. I saw it as a human weakness, not for any moral reason, but from the perspective of a perfectionist, who wanted nothing to do with something which would weaken my body or impair my judgment. I thought it very strange that many of these men were willing to do harm to their bodies, by getting drunk and high on pot. I never smoked a single cigarette much less pot. However, in a crazy way it did raise my self-esteem just a notch when I was around people like Milliron who did smoke and drink and seemed to have a “devil may care” attitude. Why? Because my self-loathing was a horrible affliction which actually was soothed when I was in the presence of those who seemed to have more human flaws than me.         

     While still at this compound, The phrase, "Hurry up and wait" was mentioned many times by most of us grunts. We did a lot of that in Vietnam. Looking back now I realize that while we waited, big wheels were being put into motion at division headquarters. However, we were just the tread on the tires. When things were put in gear, we would “hit the ground running” but as treads on a tire, we would only get a "tread's eye view" of the upcoming operation. We were the very embodiment of the well-worn phrase, "where the rubber meets the road". From that vantage point, however, we never got to see the bigger picture. To gain insight into the bigger picture I would have to wait almost a half century for something called the internet to be invented. 

     However, what many of us grunts were able to see, all too clearly, was how little our leadership was willing to use common sense, when implementing tactical maneuvers against the enemy. Actually, the way we were forced to do stupid things over and over was incredible. The incompetence defied all logical thinking. Little did I know that at this time there was a young high school student who would later pour over some of the same after-action reports which I am reading now. He would recognize many of the mistakes made. He would later correct those mistakes when he got the chance. That young man's name was David Petraeus, and he was the man who would turn the insurgency during the Iraq War on its head.

     So, as Operation Junction City began, we older guys now had to keep an eye on new replacements. Not only would we have to watch them, but we would also have to continue dodging bullet ourselves, while continually dodging that proverbial bullet coming from our commanders. We had no role model and no one we could trust to see us through. The situation was dire. It was even more dire than I ever imagined.