When I started thinking about doing this book, I intended not to include any gory war stories. I simply wanted to relate occurrences in the daily lives of the soldiers with whom I lived and worked, as well as those of the local people. I especially wanted to tell you about the Montagnards. But if I am to convey some sense of the bizarre, the cruel, the outrageous, the inhuman things that we sometimes encountered, I must recount two incidents. Let me warn you. They will disgust you, and make you angry. If you get queasy at the thought of violence you should skip this story and go on to the next.
Much has been written about the inscrutable Oriental mind, and how westerners can and will never understand it. I believe that to be true, but it certainly works both ways. For proof of that, consider an incident recounted in the book The Sand Pebbles. A poor Chinese peasant boatman was poling a barge down a river when he observed a strange custom practiced by a western passenger. The man took from his pocket a piece of linen finer than any the boatmen had ever seen. Into that fine cloth the man copiously blew his nose, folded the cloth to preserve the treasure and carefully put it in his pocket for safekeeping.
Mark M., a friend and SFOC classmate, was the A team CO in a camp south of Dak Pek. When I ran into him on a visit to our headquarters in Kontum, he told me this story which was at once fascinating and repulsive and frightening--sort of like staring a cobra in the eyes up close and personal.
Mark was on a patrol with the usual mix of ‘Yard and Vietnamese strikers and one or two Vietnamese special forces soldiers. The patrol was moving single file as was necessary in most jungle areas. The point man fired on a small Viet Cong element, slightly wounding one. When Jim heard the shooting, he moved as quickly as he could to the head of the column. When he arrived he saw the wounded Viet Cong on the ground. He was very excited; a prisoner would be a real coup. As he got closer, he saw that he would have no prisoner, after all.
The man’s battle wounds were not serious, but standing over him was one of the Vietnamese on the patrol--I don’t remember if Mark said he was a striker or a Vietnamese Special Forces soldier. In the soldier’s hands were both of the wounded man’s kidneys. He had approached the wounded man who was lying on his back on the ground, jerked up his shirt, and sliced open his belly. He then had stuck his hand deep in the man’s abdomen, rooted around until he found his kidneys, and yanked both of them out by the roots.
The wounded man gave a few whimpers betraying his agony. He was watching as his tormentor calmly sliced open the kidneys. He was looking for kidney stones, which are said to be worth a lot of money to practitioners of traditional Oriental medicine.
Another incident occurred when I was commanding CCC near Kontum in the spring of 1969. It was the custom of several of the reconnaissance team leaders to go into Kontum on Sunday morning to have breakfast. Several small sidewalk cafes served delicious Chinese noodle soup. Having soup for breakfast might seem odd, but it is perfectly normal in the Orient. We went everywhere armed, but in town it was usually only a sidearm.
It happened on a quiet Sunday morning. The nights in the highlands are cool, and the dew was beginning to surrender to the early sun. Just before 0800, two wild-eyed team leaders screamed through the gate in a jeep and slid to a stop in a cloud of dust. The story came out in shouted fragments, but it was not long before the awful truth was evident.
As they sat having their soup with a fellow team leader in one of the cafes, one of the ‘Yards on their friend’s team passed by. Seeing his leader, he came by to greet him.
Let me digress a bit to explain about ‘Yards and Vietnamese. The vast majority of Vietnamese I knew treated ‘Yards with extreme arrogance and cruelty, although there were a few who did not. Seeing their attitudes and actions toward the ‘Yards I was reminded of what it must have been like for slaves on the ante-bellum plantation of a sadistic owner. Vietnamese of every social or economic circumstance could and did order about any ‘Yard they encountered. It was a frequent occurrence to see a Vietnamese military leader beat a ‘Yard striker, or even ‘Yard civilians. The reason ‘Yards worked so well with U. S. Special Forces is that we treated them with respect and dignity. We intervened to stop their mistreatment whenever we could do so without causing serious problems. The ‘Yards were extremely loyal to us, and to my personal knowledge, by force of arms twice prevented Vietnamese troops from carrying out threats to kill me or some of my troops at Dak Pek.
Back to the incident. As the ‘Yard stood by the table talking to his team leader, a Vietnamese soldier left his table and ordered the ‘Yard out of the area. Apparently the ‘Yard was spoiling his breakfast with his unworthy presence. The team leader let the Vietnamese know that he was out of line, and that the ‘Yard would leave when the conversation was finished. The Vietnamese left in a huff.
When they had finished their leisurely breakfast, the three team leaders paid their bill and walked to their jeep. The Vietnamese soldier was waiting, now armed with a carbine which he used to shoot dead the team leader. He fled before the others could react.
As the word of the killing spread through the camp, a two and a half ton truck roared up from the motor pool. A dozen or so SF troops jumped aboard, all heavily armed and spoiling for revenge. They were crying and cursing and vowing to clean out that nest of vipers in Kontum. It was all I could do to make them dismount. It was well that I controlled my own rage and frustration and was able to stop them. I later learned that as soon as the Vietnamese province chief in Kontum heard of the incident, he dispatched two tanks to the bridge at the southern edge of town, over which the truck would have had to travel to get into Kontum. As painful as my decision was for myself and my troops, it averted a certain massacre at the bridge.
One thing that bothered me a lot during both tours in Viet Nam was the sense of isolation. Out in the sticks, we learned little, if anything, about events occurring beyond our immediate surroundings. The only way we had to communicate was with our military radios and through personal contact. The radios were for communicating with our headquarters, and we got few knowledgeable visitors. Travel was difficult. Often it was impossible and always it was time consuming to get where one wanted to go. In dealings with Vietnamese authorities, things went from merely difficult to impossible. A Vietnamese had only to move from one town or village to one just a few miles away to have the same effect as disappearing from the face of the earth as far as U. S. forces were concerned. In neither of the above incidents was I able to learn anything about the apprehension and punishment of the offenders. I did hear unconfirmed rumors that the Vietnamese soldier who shot the team leader had been arrested by the Vietnamese authorities, but no more.
Didn’t I warn you that you would be disgusted and angry?
Copyright 1999
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