Excerpt
A Hard Place
(A Sergeant’s Tale)
Prologue
South Vietnam, Republic of, Vung Tao Harbor, Mekong river delta, fall 1966. It surely wasn’t supposed to be this way. It’s O’ dark-thirty, and I’m standing on the deck of the USNS Troopship, the General Pinhead or whatever his goddamn name was. In full combat gear, watching the swabbies put cargo nets over the side, and if that wasn’t enough there are fucking landing craft coming along side! Landing craft!! Jesus! That is right out of my daddy’s war, or at the very least save that shit for the Marines. They like that shit. Amphibious and all that! I’m Army for Christ’s sake and Special Operations at that. I’ll make a HALO jump in the middle of the night and never think twice about it. But I don’t do no fucking landing craft, and if some asshole with bars hollers “fix bayonets” I’ll fix one all right, right up his ass. This ain’t Guadalcanal, you know!
Thinking back to that lovely morning, as I stood there, basking in the yellow glow of a few hundred artillery flares in the sky, back when I thought I was pretty tough, a young buck Sergeant, with just over two years in the Army. I’d already spent a full 13 month tour in Korea, and I had been under fire more than a few times, up near the end of Artillery Road. Not too far north from our little hooch complex inside the 2nd Inf. Div. compound at Munsan-Ni, a few clicks to the north, then west a few clicks into the playpen. It seems as though somebody had conveniently forgotten to tell JC (Joe chink) and his boys that the goddamn war in Korea was over. But that’s another whole story in itself. That wasn’t really “combat”. It was just some misunderstandings between us and the North Koreans over jurisdiction. A “Police Action” I believe they have been calling it. Well! This, ain’t no “Police Action” either.





Chapter One
Anyway, that was then, and this is now. So I guess I’d better preface this, with the traditional war story heading.
“This ain’t no bull shit!! Listen up!”
It’s the beginning of my third tour in the wonderful land of Bau-mi ba (Vietnamese beer) and booby traps. I’m sitting here in the 90th Replacement Battalion holding area, which is just up the street from the Long Binh jail. Just north of the same ammo dump Charlie blew up back in 67 when I was here, and camped out on the road with a couple hundred other guys, waiting for a convoy to Xuan-Loc, Camp Black Horse ( home of the 11th Armored Cavalry). Man! What a night that was, hot ammunition was raining out of the sky all-night long. As I sit here, on this bunk, reminiscing, in my underwear, hot and sweaty, drinking Jack Black, (the only real soldiers drink) straight from the bottle. And slowly, I might add. It’s about 3 PM and the temperature in this barracks is about 110 degrees or so, and drinking Jack with a vengeance, will put your ass on the floor. Just as I light up another Camel, I see shadows appear in the doorway, and two Saigon commandos with the shiniest jungle boots I’ve ever seen. And starched!?! Jungle fatigues that aren’t even faded a little bit, close haircuts, clean-shaven, and I can smell the goddamn Right Guard and Aqua Velva from thirty feet away. One of them says,
“Are you Peterson?”
“No asshole, I’m Douglas MacArthur.”
“Hey!” He says, “That’s Lieutenant Asshole to you Staff Sergeant!”
“Well no offense Lieutenant, it’s damn hot in here, and I’m bored to death.”
“Well” he says, “get your shit together and come with us. Somebody wants to see your ass, about a job opportunity.”
Lieutenant Antonito who is every bit of 5 ft. 7 in., an Italian from New York and his sidekick Staff Sergeant Trapp from Boston who, it turns out are, with MAC-V Intelligence Section and work for Colonel Tom Weaver. A good man, I had the pleasure of working with him down in the Delta when the B Team (Special Forces) was in its heyday. There were Aussies in the bush, armed Mohawks (an airplane) in the sky, and we really were, Jolly Green Giants, walking the land with guns. Those were indeed shining times, before Tet, 6 February 68. Now it’s August 1970 and it’s a whole “nother” ball game over here. Charlie didn’t like the way the war was going. So he changed all the rules. Mostly in his favor!
So after I get dressed and shave, we go out and get in their shiny new ‘¼ ton utility vehicle’ (jeep) which has a brand new green canvas top. I’m impressed. We arrive at the MAC-V (Military Assistance Command Vietnam) compound after one of those hair raising drives through Saigon that leaves you wondering ‘what in the hell are we doing here?’ These fucking dinks have been killing each other over drugs, money, women and power for thousands of years, way long before we got here, and they will still be killing each other a thousand years after we are gone. We, like the Japanese and the French, are but a temporary inconvenience. If Washington hadn’t chicken- shitted Ho Chi Min back in the fifties we wouldn’t be fighting our little yellow brothers now. This whole goddamn scenario never has had anything to do with Communism, or freedom, or stopping their aggression. This is a war for drug turf, the Golden triangle Et Al which was originally controlled by the Black Thai from the northern areas. Much to the chagrin of their jealous assed relatives from the South, the White Thai (the colors represent their traditional Ao-Dai native costumes). They invited in the French, who, after the Second World War, were flat broke and needed money to shore up their government and their military. The French thought they had found the goose that laid the golden egg. They soon discovered that the remoteness of the producing areas, and the Asian mentality, both combined to make their position untenable. They were very impolitely shown the door. The pot simmered for while, and eventually Uncle Ho became worried that the Red Chinese might step in and take over the drug production. So, he asked his good friends in Washington for their help and was told, not so politely, to fuck-off. So then Washington, in its infinite wisdom, decided to help the puppet government of the White Thai faction in the south. The CIA wanted to control the flow of the snow, through military intervention and political control. Once again they are absolutely, under-estimating the Asian mentality.
Not to mention their lack of control of local politics. And now, we will be lucky to escape from this shit hole with even our minds intact, much less what will remain of our military integrity. So there MOFO put that in your text books! Because, boys and girls, that is the real truth of it! Everything else is Bullshit!
The jeep grinds to a halt in front of building 2100T, more commonly known as Special Operations, and jolts me from my reveries. The heat hits you really fast when you stop moving. So I climb out and we go inside. I am immediately hit with the coldest air I’ve felt since January back at Bad Tolz in Bavaria. It seems as though every window in the building has an air conditioner in it, duly humming away at its job. Going on down the hall a few doors, we enter into a room with two desks, filing cabinets and a half dozen chairs, at the desk on the right is a young black guy, rank of Spec 4, with thickest Coke bottle bottom glasses I have ever looked through, into a pair of distorted blue eyes. The PX nameplate on the front his desk said “Ole Blue Eyes“. Well hey! Who am I to question?
“The colonel is expecting you”, he says pointing to the door between the desks.
The Lieutenant steps forward and opens the door and indicates I should enter. There, seated behind an expensive wooden desk, sits Colonel Tom Weaver, Airborne Ranger, Green Beret, Special Operations, etc., etc. A damn fine soldier! He's 6'2", slender, going gray, with hawk eyes.
“Well Rock”, he says “I see they sent your ugly ass back again”.
“Hi Colonel, your not all that pretty yourself!” extending my hand, which he takes and promptly tries to crush. So we stand there for a minute or two each trying make the other back down. Finally he grins and lets my hand go.
“You’re still strong enough to make the grade eh Sergeant?”
“Well sir”, I say, “ain’t no shave tail gonna make me blink”.
“Sit down, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Lets get a cold drink started and we’ll talk” he says as he walks over to one of those, big fat door Frigidaire reefers, with gold handles. He opens it up and takes out two green cans of 7-Up, takes a church key off his belt and punches holes in both cans. Handing me one he sits back down and I hear the door close behind me, realizing that we are now alone. I ask
“What’s up Sir?!”
“Rock”, he says, “How would you like to be an enlisted platoon leader, with a small, detached duty, “Mike” force?”
“Could you be a little vaguer?” I ask. Laughing he pushes his chair back and swivels to his left and looks up to the wall map showing all of South and North Vietnam. Picking up a pointer from his desk, holding one end in each of his hands, he looked at me quietly for a moment and then says,
“Before we go any further, I need to know if I can count on you”.
“All the way! Anywhere! Anytime!”, I reply. “Airborne!”, then he says, with a smile. “I knew I could, but I had to ask officially.”
“No problem Colonel” I say “But why me? You got a hundred good NCOs you could tag for this assignment just by keying your intercom.”
“No” he says, “Actually right now I don’t. I’m short both NCOs and officers for tactical operations. The line units are getting most of the cherries, and SF (Special Forces) operations in other parts of the world have pulled off a lot of the Vets. So you’re it Buddy” he says with a toothy grin.
“Ah gee!” I say, “Imagine that, me being specially selected for a choice duty assignment. How can I ever thank you?”
“All right” he says, “you my friend,” pointing at me with the pointer, “are going to change into tiger stripes, and haul your ass up to Chu-Lai, you will be attached to the 57th Trans Battalion, they operate the gun trucks for convoy escorts up through Da-Nang and over the Hy-Van pass, to Camp Evans, Phu-bai, the Rock Pile, FSAI, FSAII and all the rest of Quang Tri and Phu Bai provinces. That will constitute your AO (Area of Operation); your boss will be LTC Jack Moya, a good man. He is the Battalion Commander, but he really works for me. Upon arrival you will begin selection and training of a 28-man platoon. “Volunteers” will be sent to you to screen and select from. Your cover will be as a logistics NCO assigned to liaison the 4th Trans Command in Da-Nang. When in Da-Nang you will stay at the SF hotel on the North side, close to the ship canal, just in case you need cover or an alternate way out-of-town. Are you clear so far?”
“Yes Sir, I have it”.
“Good, nothing written, ever”, he says.
“Understood”, I say.
“And, listen Rock, one more thing, there is still a price on your head from that thing at Con Thien. Don’t let them catch you or you will die hard.”
“That is why I have this little Smith model 60 in my waistband Sir.”
“I know!” He says grimly. “I remember the class, put the muzzle in your mouth, it works every time.” “Rock, I want you to know that I wouldn’t send you if I didn’t feel that you are big enough asshole to handle the situation. Why the hell you won’t accept a commission is beyond me!”
“Sir, if I were to accept a commission I would have to attend all your old ladies fucking tea parties.” I give him a big smile.
“Get out of my office asshole!! Go to work.” Standing slowly to attention, Ramrod straight, executing a proper NCO academy hand salute, I state in a loud voice,
“Sir, we who are about to die salute you!!”
“Right”, he says, “Hell I’m gullible I’ll believe anything.” I execute an about-face and exit his office laughing. Ole blue eyes looks at me like I’m insane. God I love this war!! Especially being a card-carrying member of the society of perpetual adolescents, the United States Military ET AL, ad infinitum.
I go over to Quartermaster Section where I meet another old friend, Staff Sergeant Bobby Collins, from the hills of ‘West by God’ Virginia. Now he is running the supply room here in Never Never Land. He quickly outfits me with four sets of Tiger stripe fatigues, the old kind the advisor type with the shirt that can be tucked in and slant pocket trousers with the little square cargo pockets on the leg, that won’t hold anything but a notepad, and a black beret with no insignia. I quickly change clothes and head down to the Armament Section in the rear of the compound, stopping off at the Class VI store (liquor) first where I pick up 2 quarts of Imperial Bourbon for $1.15 each off of my new liquor and tobacco ration card. Entering the Armaments Section, I walk up to counter and place the bag containing the whiskey on top. Sitting at a desk behind the counter is a grizzly looking CW3 Warrant Officer who has been here for several years and is quite the legend for his off-duty conduct. He looks at me and says
“When did you get back? And what you want?” I lean over the counter and place the bag with the whiskey on his desk.
“I need a 9MM Browning with four extra mags, a CAR-15, and a Grenade Launcher.”
“And just what are you going to do Junior, start your own fucking war?” He says, giving me his best lowered eyebrow chief Warrant officer look.
“You bet”, I say with a big smile.
“Well tough shit Sonny, if I had a Browning I’d be carrying it. But I do have a nice 45 Colt with a match grade barrel that’s been polished and ported, and I’ll give you a modified CAR-15 with a 12 in. barrel and screw on suppressor. And, you can have all the fucking M-79s you want. All for a nominal fee of course”, he says, raising his eyebrows.
“How much?” I ask nonchalantly.
“Four quarts of Imperial and four cartons of Pall-Malls” he replies, “and I’ll take these two as down payment” picking up the bag. He gets up from his desk and walks over to a steel storage cabinet with two huge combination locks on it. Twirls the dials for a few minutes, gets both locks off and opens the doors. I can’t see inside as he puts in the whiskey and takes out a blue Colt Firearms Co. cardboard box, closes the cabinet, locks it and walks back over to the counter. He reaches under the counter and sets 8 loaded 45 mags on the top of the box. “OK Sonny, now you’re armed. Bring the rest of the goods in morning and I’ll have the other pieces ready.”
“Sure thing Chief” I state. One does not argue with Chief Warrant Officers about anything.
So I depart, stopping outside the door, and take out the new looking Colt 45 Auto with an enlarged ejection port and National Match stamped on the barrel. I insert the loaded mag that is in the box, point the weapon down into the clearing barrel, rack the slide back and release it. Hearing that satisfying metallic ratchet sound as a 230 grain full metal jacket, round goes home. Since I don’t have a holster, I stick the gun in my waistband, don my beret and walk off whistling. I stop at supply and pickup a brand-new pilot’s shoulder holster. Spending a few minutes I trim off some of the excess leather with my buck knife. I adjust the fit of the straps, take off my fatigue shirt, put the rig on over my T-shirt and put the fatigue shirt back on. A slight bulge in the front is visible, but not too bad. I put a full mag in each front pant pocket. Plus, the S&W five shot Snub 38 Special, loaded with hollow based wad cutters turned around backwards, riding inside the waistband just over my right hip. Nestled in a little horsehide holster made by some guy in England. Hell, I’m damn near ready for anything.
They have assigned me a room in the in NCO barracks and have brought my gear out from Long Binh. But I know where I’m going to spend the night and it ain’t in any fucking barracks building. So I mosey on over to the motor pool, which in this place is open 24 hours a day. It is already climbing up to 2000 hours (8 p.m. to you citizens). A few minutes conversation with a young PFC and I drive out into the cooling Saigon evening air in a HQ USARV old-style jeep it’s the one that looks like a jeep and won’t flip over if you turn too hard.







Chapter Two
Saigon in the evening is an updated version of Sodom and Gomorrah with black marketing and neon lights. Tu Do Street is the main attraction but not where the real action is. The main event is played out in back alleys, Canal Streets and walled courtyards starting at the bridge where the PA&E (Pacific Architects and Engineers) village is located on the east side, running West and South through the high dollar area down to the Trans Command docks on the river, then West into Cho Lon, by the International Hotel and back East along the canals to the Rice Mill. Anything you have ever wanted, fantasized or dreamed of can be had for a price, every drug known to man; every sexual appetite ever dreamed of is easily obtained. Every exotic food or weird fetish, are all can-do GI, and if you have green dollars instead of usual MPC (military payment certificates or script) you can find some shit you’ve never even heard of before. Many an American cherry boy left here a bona fide sexual connoisseur. Me, well I’m just a choirboy.
So I drive down into Cho Lon, the traditional Ethnic Chinese district of Saigon, and find my way over to the Dong-Khan hotel on the corner where you turn left to go to the Rice Mill (which is probably the strangest military compound in all of Nam). Stopping out front of the Dong-Khan I lock the jeeps steering wheel with a padlock through a length of trace chain that is welded to the floor, and notice with satisfaction that the gas cap has a lock on it. One of Charlie’s nasty little surprises, is to pull the pin on a grenade put a big fat rubber band around it to hold the spoon in place and drop it in your gas tank, the rubber band dissolves in the gasoline and the grenade explodes inside of a metal tank containing up to 10 gallons of gas, which you are sitting literally on top of. Good-bye, Sin-loi, minh-oi (so sorry bout that).
Anyway, I grab my ditty bag with clean drawers, socks, shaving gear and four baseball grenades (you never know?) and saunter inside. The Dong Khan is at best a second-rate hotel, with virtually no amenities. But, the rooms are clean, the linen is white, the ceiling fans work, the shower is hot, the rates are cheap and the place is owned and operated by the Saigon Tong Society (white dragon or something like that) and nobody in their right fucking mind messes with the tong or this hotel. MPs don’t come in here, or the Vietnamese police. So it is a cool place to come when you are in Saigon and relax a little, order in lady of the evening, and then go up to the fourth floor, to the best Chinese restaurant this side of Shanghai. Last time I was here, I’d just come in from the bush and I was carrying a grease gun and an M-79, I left both of them lying on the bed and went out. I got back about 3 a.m. and the bed had been turned down and the weapons were stacked in the corner, loaded and on safe. I slept like a baby. That, my friends, is fucking security.
I checked in to my room. After a quick shower and shave I went up to the fourth floor for a meal of Crackling rice soup, Dragon and Phoenix, Mongolian beef, and heavy smoked Lap Sang/Soo Chong tea. The place is about half full and most are Chinese, I see two Embassy types in their wilted suits, with their current, sloe eyed, Ao Dai wearing, long silky black hair, high dollar, and high maintenance Vietnamese mistresses. They are looking at me as if some biker flying colors just walked into the country club. Well fuck-em! if they can’t take a joke. Meanwhile Mr. Ong ? (if I remember correctly) gets up from a table full of older rich looking Chinese guys who are playing Mah-Jong, the Chinese game of tiles, (that damn sure ain’t Domino’s) walks over to my table and says
“Hello again Sergeant. I haven’t seen you in a while”.
“I’ve been stateside and to Europe” I say.
“Are you staying with us tonight?” He asks.
“Yep I like this place!”
“We’re pleased as always to have you honor us with your presence. I hope that you have a very pleasant night.” With a slight the bow he returns to his table. And the two Embassy types looked like they just discovered Jesse James is on the train. I smile and sip my tea. And the damned civilian wannabe’s call us, “spooks”.
Next morning I’m back at MAC-V getting my orders cut, drawing some pay and some admin and logistical stuff squared way. Then I take a quick run over to the Cho-Lon PX (Post Exchange). It is the biggest one in Saigon, where I pick up the smokes for Chief in Armaments and a couple of cartons for myself. I spent most of the rest of the day like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off. Finally about 5 p.m., I make it over to Armaments Section and pickup the car-15, sort of a chopped off M-16 with a few modifications, officially the Chief says it’s an XM177E2 and a new M. 79 40mm grenade launcher with two twelve round bandoliers containing gold tip frag rounds.
At 7 P.M. I have a final briefing with the Colonel, followed by a steak dinner at the NCO club, and a few shots of Jack Black, just to make me sleep.