Soldiers and Marines Saga, page 25
“The poor bastards won’t have a chance.”
What Dave didn’t say is that his old Tenth Special Forces Group has similar assignments in various Eastern European countries, and will try to carry them out, even though they fully expect to get the same reception.
“Well, we’re gonna do it without the Russians finding out, and we’re gonna use German troops and German planes. So, Dave, why don’t you and Mike start making up initial equipment and personnel lists for a West German insertion team of special operators tasked to parachute in and blow up a key bridge, and then roam around in the Siberian boonies for a year, or so, blowing up trains, bridges, and pipelines.”
Mike and Dave liked the idea of doing it with German troops, and we immediately began talking about equipment, and personnel requirements. After a bit of discussion, we decided to plan for six to nine month missions with the smallest possible number of men on each team.
Heads went up, and eyes registered surprise, when I asked our newly arrived air force guys, Lieutenant Colonel David Jones, our flight planner, and recently retired Major Jack Riley, our soon to be reactivated as a lieutenant colonel photo interpreter, to work as a team, to find us the best fifty to eighty insertion locations, where we might be able to get long range penetration teams into Siberia, and really hurt their key railroad bridges, and oil pipeline pump stations.
We’ve got a big base full of empty warehouses, and ammunition bunkers to hold the necessary supplies. If we’re gonna cut off the Russian reinforcements, and supplies, by severing their roads, railroads, and pipelines, we might as well really cut’em and keep’em cut.
If possible, we’ll use even more insertion teams, and cut the Warsaw Pact bridges from China all the way up to the railroad bridges we plan to have the swimmers blow in Eastern Europe. But first things first. Getting the Swimmers Project going, and figuring out how to cut Russia’s east off from its west, would keep everyone busy for quite a while.
Charlie made a good point at our initial staff meeting. We’re going to need a lot more equipment, supplies, and staff, if we’re thinking about adding a big batch of long-range special operators to our Swimmers Program. The special operators are going to need a lot of gear if they’re going to be in the boonies for a long time, and that means we better start fixing up another one, or even two or three, of the French warehouses, so we’ll be ready.
******
Things were moving right along. One of our warehouses was already almost filled with fully loaded, and ready-to-fly, pallets, and we were already cleaning up the warehouse next it to hold even more of them. Some of the pallets have the supplies, and gear. They will be dropped with the German special operations teams, and contain everything we think the teams will need for an extended stay in Siberia without resupply. Other pallets have the explosives, underwater gear, and supplies that would needed by the swimmers.
We were about ready to move on to a couple of other ideas, when Talley’s successor, General Powell, called. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but he wanted me to catch a ride to Washington, and bring a dress uniform with all my ribbons. Uh oh. Sounds like trouble.
******
I caught the Pentagon shuttle bus, and headed straight over to General Powell’s office, as soon as I landed at Andrews. I knew him slightly because, before he retired, General Talley had me fly over, and brief General Powell about the Detachment.
General Powell was a big, and genial, black guy with a problem. President Johnson, he informed me, was looking for a general officer, someone with significant combat experience, who wasn’t part of the West Point Mafia.
In a nutshell, according to General Powell, President Johnson wants someone to go to Vietnam and bring back an honest appraisal of the military situation. For some reason the President has asked for me, probably, Powell said with a big smile, because Ben Talley gave him your name, and said the army establishment dislikes you because you got a star, even though you didn’t attend one of the military academies.
My “meet and greet” with the President in the Oval Office was short, enlightening, and quite informal. It was the first time I’d ever been to the White House, and I was more than a little nervous about it.
“Where you from, General?”
“Alaska, Sir. Years ago. I’ve spent most of my life in the army.”
“You know General Talley from Beeville, Texas? He says you’re just the man to give me straight answers about what’s really going on over there and won’t try to cover up the mistakes that are being made. Will you do that for me?”
Talley’s from Beeville? I would have thought someplace else.”
“Yes Sir, I will.”
“Good. I want that report read by me, and only me. You bring it here yourself, and give it to old Joe Thomson over there by..” … “Goddamn that dog, he’s pissed on the chair leg again.”
******
There is nothing like being on a mission for the President to get good treatment, and waste money. I was the only passenger on the long range Air Force Gulfstream when it touched down at Tan Son Nhut Airport outside Saigon.
A very proper army colonel, with neatly pressed fatigues, and well shined boots, was waiting for me when the plane landed.
“Colonel Parsons, Sir. General Westmoreland sent me to fetch you, and make sure you got a complete briefing before you meet with him.”
“That’s very kind of General Westmoreland, Colonel. I would appreciate a briefing, but I wasn’t aware that I required fetching, but here I am.”
Maybe that’s too light-hearted. But what the hell.
******
The briefing was classic military bullshit. We are here, and here, and they are there, and there. Enemy casualties are too high for them to sustain, so victory is assured. All we need are more troops, more equipment, and more time. Yadda, Yadda, Yadda.
It was essentially the same briefing I had gotten in Hanoi years ago, before I jumped into Dien Bien Phu. At one point, I was tempted to interrupt the briefer, and ask him if he’d found his notes in an old French army desk he’d inherited.
Westmoreland was reserved. He told me he’s glad to see me because he knew the facts would encourage the President to stay the course. I assured him that I intended to do my very best, and that I would greatly appreciate any help he could provide. I was very honest when I said that I didn’t have a clue as to how long I’d be in Vietnam.
******
The next morning Colonel Parsons showed up at the base’s VIP quarters bright and early. He said he had arranged a schedule and a helicopter for me. I thanked him for arranging the helicopter and told him I wanted to go forthwith to the headquarters of the Third Battalion of the 22nd Infantry Regiment.
Parsons was surprised.
“But that’s not on the schedule, Sir”
“Yes it is,” I told him “because that’s where I am going this morning.”
******
The loud womp, womp, womp of the helicopter blades chopped the air as we flew over green fields, and villages, on our way north. We started a few minutes late because the damn fool tried to take my picture standing next to the helicopter pilot, who had apparently been ordered to dismount for the purpose.
“For what?” I inquired somewhat frostily, as I pushed past the door gunner and climbed in. “Get your ass in,” I ordered the pilot. “Let’s go.”
Does this man think I’m here for a photo to hang on my office wall, and a “happy talk” report written by Westmoreland’s staff that reflects the bullshit I heard in the briefing?
The CO of the 22nd, a Colonel Bowen Smith, was waiting when we landed. He had obviously been hurriedly called, and informed, that I was on my way to see him. He seemed like a nice guy, and quite competent. His troops probably like him.
Colonel Smith didn’t have a clue as to why I was there, or what I wanted from him. All I explained to him is that I wanted to visit with the men of units, such as his Charlie Company, and that it was sheer happenstance that I decided to start with his unit.
I didn't tell him or Colonel Parsons that I have a particular affection for Charlie Companies and Third Battalions.
No problem, said Colonel Smith, Charlie of the Third was camped at a firebase, Firebase Tonelli, about twenty miles down the road.
“No need for you two to come along,” I told the two colonels.
“That sergeant over there can go with me,” I said as I pointed to a young infantry sergeant with a bandage on his hand. He was wearing a patch for the 22nd, and seemed to be waiting to see if he could hitch a ride with us if we were going to where he wanted to go.
“What’s the best way to get to Charlie Company at Firebase Tonelli,” I asked the sergeant, as I walked over to him, and we exchanged salutes. “Drive the road or fly?”
The sergeant's name was Terry Barnes, and he was more than a little surprised at being singled out, and told by his Colonel that he has been assigned to me until further notice. But he saluted rather smartly, and climbed aboard when I gestured for him to get in.
We’re flying. The roads weren’t safe.
“Off the record,” I said as I stood up and yelled over the engine noise to the corporal manning the machine gun in the doorway, “how’s it going?”
“Totally off the record, Sir?” he shouted back.
I nodded an emphatic yes.
“I’m a short-timer. Seventeen days to go, and I stop flying. Then I’m out of this shit hole. The first six months I wanted to shoot at Viet Cong. The second six months I wanted to shoot at the ARVN, particularly their senior officers. They’re not worth a shit. Some of the junior officers and NCOs are pretty good, but they’ve all been pretty much abandoned”
******
For eleven days, Sergeant Terry Barnes of the 22nd and I flew from unit to unit. I talked to everyone from colonels to privates, sergeants, and junior officers. Mostly I visited American infantry, and Marines, but I also spent a couple of days with the Koreans, and Australians. I particularly sought out people who’ve been in-country for a while. And I made it a particular point to spend every night with a combat arms company in the field.
There is nothing like sharing a tent with an army or Marine Corps company commander, or platoon leader, and listening to the radio traffic to get past the official bullshit. Overall the nights were surprisingly quiet. There was a bit of small weapons fire in the distance on a couple of nights, and the artillery on the firebases periodically let loose, but no incoming fire ever came my way.
I also went along on a couple of “search and destroy” operations, and flew into a couple of battlefields to watch in disgust as our dead, and wounded were picked up, and the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong dead, who’d been buried by their friends, were dug up so they could be counted.
Twice, I nodded my agreement to the pilot when a call came asking if we were available to evacuate some Vietnamese wounded, and held the hand of one of them while he died.
******
I left Terry with a strong letter of commendation, in case he wants to stay in the army, and hitched a ride on a Huey going to Saigon. After an all day search involving a couple of language schools, and a business that provides expensive interpreters, I finally found someone who was close to the type of man I was looking for.
Mr. Thanh was an elderly French-speaking Vietnamese civilian who’d worked for years in a French-owned business before its owner closed it and moved back to France. I paid Mr. Thanh a goodly sum of green dollars, out of my own pocket, and he and I spent the next two weeks driving, and helicoptering, from one non-elite ARVN, or regional forces unit, to the next.
The Vietnamese officers, when we could find them, inevitably spoke French, which I inevitably pretended not to understand. Mister Thanh and I quickly developed a pretty good routine. He would translate my questions into Vietnamese, and then later, in French, ask whoever we were talking to, what was really happening, and where were all the officers?
What I quickly learned is that the senior officers were rarely with their units, and that many of the junior officers were either determined to avoid any contact with the Viet Cong, or had reached some type of accommodation with them—because they had no choice. Their American advisors didn’t know this because tended to live totally separately and could not communicate with the ARVIN they were advising, except through interpreters, who inevitably told the Americans whatever they thought they wanted to hear.
It soon became clear that many of the ARVN enlisted men were only paid, and fed, sporadically, if at all. Even worse, there were a lot of phantom soldiers on the books whose pay was pocketed by the senior officers. And all too often, the troops received minimal care if they were hurt or wounded.
The ARVN hospital I visited, when we picked up and evacuated the wounded Vietnamese was disgusting and disgraceful. There were very few surgeons and nurses, and multiple casualties sharing narrow hospital beds.
I quickly came to the conclusion that one of the many reasons the ARVN unit commanders were not willing, or able, to more actively engage the Viet Cong was because Westmoreland’s planners, and the Washington politicians “playing war,” inevitably ordered overly ambitious and nonsensical operations, based on the reported sizes of the ARVN units, instead of their actual sizes, and the conditions on the ground. These operations were poorly thought out because the senior ARVN commanders lived in a world totally separate from their troops, and seemed to be “too busy,” or “too far way,” or “too yellow” to familiarize themselves with conditions on the ground.
The corruption, and disconnect, between the orders coming down from Washington and Westmoreland’s headquarters, and the reality of the conditions on the ground was striking.
As wise old Sergeant Murphy once suggested to me about another war, the people running this here war can’t tell the difference between the crack in their ass and a hole in the ground.
Twenty-nine days after my arrival, I flew home from Tan Son Nhut. Before I left, I was politely asked, and then pointedly ordered, by one of the many major generals on Westmoreland’s staff, to give him a copy of my report, so he could show it to Westmoreland.
I’m quite proud of myself. Instead of telling him to go fuck himself, I tactfully explained that I would love to provide General Westmoreland with a copy of my report, but “couldn’t because I haven’t written it yet.”
That’s a fact, although, I'm not sure he believed me. But, as the saying goes, tough shit.
“But there are several things that are quite clear, and will be in my report,” I told him. “One is that your search and destroy missions are worse than useless; they’re alienating the Vietnamese people, and making new Viet Cong faster than you’re killing the old ones. In so doing, your operations are causing casualties among our enlisted men and junior officers that are totally unnecessary. And to make things even worse, if that’s possible, you’re not protecting the Vietnamese people, so you’re leaving them no choice, but to help the Viet Cong, to save themselves. In other words, General, Saigon is losing the war big time, and doesn’t seem to realize it.”
Boy is he pissed. That’s not what he wanted to hear.
I continued with, I am sure, a look of disgust, and disdain, on my face.
“The second thing, something I picked up from talking to the rank and file Vietnamese and their junior officers, is that something big is brewing. From the briefings I’ve been getting, it is obvious that you, and your colleagues, think the recent decline in fighting, and casualties, means you’re winning; the South Vietnamese people, and the ARVN grunts, think it means the Viet Cong are gathering their forces for a big offensive.”
Then I really insulted him, though I don’t think he realized it.
“But what really surprised me, besides the fact that you’re losing the war so badly, and don’t know it, is that most of the troops think their senior officers don’t have a clue as to what’s really happening—because they’ve never seen their senior officers in the field.”
Then I stood up, threw him a salute, and walked out of his office.
I wonder what he’ll tell Westmoreland. Not that I give a rat’s ass. Throwing their men’s lives away because they don’t use common sense, and don’t know what’s happening in the field—ticket punching assholes.
******
Even General Powell, Talley’s successor, asked to see a copy of my report when I made my manners to him in Washington, before heading back to France. It was with the greatest possible deference, that I said that I was sure the President would share it with him when I finished writing it up.
Actually, I was pretty much finished writing it up on the flight back, and I’m not at all sure who the President will show it to.
I did, however, tell Powell about the conclusions I shared with Saigon, along with how, and why, I reached them. He was appalled.
“We’re losing? Are you sure?”
I hand delivered three copies of my report to the White House before I left Washington. It was honest, it was scathing, it was full of suggestions, and it was ignored. I never heard another word. And the same old generals continued doing the same old things, in the same old way, and getting the same old results.
As that new song says, “when will they ever learn?
Chapter Eight
It was good to be back in France after more than a month in Washington, and Vietnam. Dave Shelton, and Charlie Caine, were full of news, and our warehouses were continuing to fill up with pallets of plastic explosives, and other gear and supplies.
According to Charlie, a National Guard wing of C-130s has been assigned to the Office of the Secretary of the Army so its planes will always be immediately available to carry humanitarian relief supplies to Africa, where pinpoint supply drops have to be made at night, so that the rebels won’t see where they come down. The wing’s planes are based in Oklahoma and Texas.
Our air mission planner, an air force lieutenant colonel, David Jones, a friendly red head, known to one and all, as “Davy,” was hot to visit the wing, and its squadrons. He wanted to be sure they were training, so they could handle the low level precision navigation needed to get “relief supplies” precisely dropped at night without being spotted. We kicked it around, and I okayed a visit.
