Authors: Alan Maki
Bai took a sip from his beer and replied, “What you say is true. PSB has people there only to debrief or interrogate the Hoi Chanhs.”
“An example would be political indoctrination chief?” I quizzed further.
“Yes,” answered Bai somewhat nervously.
Bai had inadvertently confirmed to me that the intel info net that November Platoon had inherited from Victor Platoon had always been penetrated by PSB through our principal agent, code-named Oscar. Prior to Oscar’s current employment as the chief of PIC—Provincial Interrogation Center, run by PSB—he was working at the Chieu Hoi Center as the PSB’s political indoctrination chief. However, Doc Bryant was told, and was convinced, that Oscar was an ex-Hoi Chanh. In that way, Oscar would be eligible to receive wages as Victor Platoon’s principal agent of their intel net. It was no wonder that Oscar had, at that time, refused his monthly pay of 10,000 piasters from us because I had continued to insist that he fill out past histories on all of his sources of information. His refusal only confirmed that he and his sources had been working for PSB and were simply collecting a little extra money for themselves, Chief Muoi, and Chief Hue.
Well, Oscar’s net will have value in other ways, I thought to myself as I lifted my beer to Mr. Bai.
Later that morning, Dai Uy and I met again at the Embassy House and returned to Dong Tam. Dai Uy gave his
warning order to myself, Knepper, Eberle, Waneous, and our Kit Carson scouts.
At 1520 the MST folks took me to My Tho by MSSC to pick up the four PSB operatives and two PSDF guides. After our return to Dong Tam, Dai Uy gave his PLO at 1730. The briefing went well until Dai Uy explained to the PSB operatives and the PSDF guides that we were going up the Rach Ba Rai canal by MST’s LSSC and MSSC boats for twenty-one klicks.
The four PSB operatives and the two PSDFs became very agitated with the head man, exclaiming,
“Choi Oi!”
which translates as “Oh my God!” That expressed my feelings exactly. The VC and NVA had always controlled Rach Ba Rai canal (above Snoopy’s Nose) and had inflicted hundreds of U.S. and Vietnamese casualties on that stretch of water. I didn’t feel that a few NVA rear echelon grunts justified the risk.
Finally, the senior PSB operative stated emphatically,
“Khong duoc!
No good. Beaucoup VC. You go, we stay.”
By 1830 all fourteen of us were aboard a U.S. Navy reefer truck and headed for the Cai Lay subsector. Chief Bassett borrowed a truck from one of his chief admin’er buddies next door and drove us to Cai Lay village, where he would remain overnight until we returned from our mission. Knepper and I sat to the rear of the reefer with our M-16/XM-148 combo weapons at the ready and the back doors cracked just enough for us to keep an eye on our posterior. Once we had reached Subsector, we switched to two U.S. Army weapons carriers and were driven to an outpost located just north of the QL-4 highway and a couple of klicks west of the infamous Rach Ba Rai canal, where we lay low until o’dark-thirty.
At 2230 hours we headed west for a couple hundred meters until we crossed a small canal, then patrolled north for six to seven klicks toward the target area. By 0300 we
had lost all communications with Subsector; our PRC-77 had gone dead, and our spare battery and extra handset didn’t solve the problem. Unfortunately, our squad radio didn’t have enough range to reach Subsector, and we were in the midst of Indian country. If we got into deep trouble, we would have little chance of outside support.
By 0530 hours we reached the hootches where the ten NVA Rear Services troopers were supposed to be berthed. I had previously suggested to Dai Uy that we concentrate on setting up perimeter security and fields of fire near the hootches and let the Vietnamese enter the huts for the actual capture. My previous experience with the PRU, Biet Hai, and LDNNs taught me that the South Vietnamese forces seldom worried about their responsibilities of security, especially after the firefight was over.
After we SEALs were in position, the PSB operatives and the two PSDFs entered the two hootches carefully and quietly. Within three or four minutes, which seemed like an hour, we began to hear a low-toned, unintelligible voice that was followed by shrill feminine voices filled with terror. Shortly afterward I heard the senior PSB operative named Ho Van cursing.
It wasn’t long before Ho Van went to Dai Uy and our new interpreter Son and explained that the NVA rear echelon troopers had moved on to another area the previous afternoon. There were only women, children, and one old man inside the hootches.
We decided to hang tight until first light to begin our patrol back to Subsector through the enemy-controlled area. The Rach Ba Rai’s banks and the adjoining dense jungle was an area that was known for its punji stakes, booby traps, snakes, and Communists. We hadn’t gotten very far when two Seawolves came flying over the area about 0700. Thank God for friends, I thought.
Because the areas nearest the canal consisted of dense
brush, nipa palm, and jungle growth, the Seawolves were unable to find us. Dai Uy fired two green-star cluster pop flares so the Seawolves would know our location and be aware that we had no radio communications and that emergency extraction was not needed. Unfortunately, the PSB operatives decided to go off without telling us where they were going. Apparently, Ho Van and his buddies felt they had lost face, and would meet us later at the canal.
Dai Uy and the rest of us continued toward the infamous canal through areas of very dense jungle growth with
Tu Dia
(Death Area) signs on the edges of all of the rice paddies. As expected, it was a very hot and humid trek to the canal. Tam, our head scout and an ex-VC sapper, was very capable of guiding us through such dangerous areas.
Once we reached the canal, we spotted Ho Van and his operatives nearby. As previously agreed, Ho Van signaled a water taxi—a large motorized sampan—by waving his M-16 rifle and ordering it to come over to the west bank to pick us up. I hadn’t had the pleasure of riding a water taxi since I worked with the PRU in Kien Giang province in ’69 I always carried a few piasters with me to pay for services, such as our taxi ride, that might be needed. It was an enjoyable ride. However, we didn’t let our guard down. Everyone kept his eyes peeled for any sign of the enemy on either bank.
We reached QL-4 and Cai Lay village by 0900 hours and shortly afterward were able to bum a ride to the Cai Lay subsector. After Dai Uy had checked in at the MACV compound and notified Major Kaike of our compromised op and our safe return, we boarded our reefer truck and headed for Dong Tam.
I looked at Dai Uy Fletcher, who was sitting on the floor of the truck, staring at a large leech slowly moving up his pants leg looking for a meal. I commented with
disgust, “I believe it’s becoming increasingly harder for us to clear AOs without their becoming compromised before we even have a chance to get in the field. Apparently, the VC have informants or penetrants in almost all of the Vietnamese sector and subsector TOCs.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, Smitty,” Fletcher replied as he gingerly pulled the three-inch leech from his cammi bottoms. He carefully placed the leech on the deck, caressed its slimy topside from head to stern and said, “However, we do get results when we operate with the Cai Lay PSB and Ba To’s group.” Dai Uy slowly pulled out his K-bar knife, with the tip pointing upward, while concentrating on the leech. He continued, “We’ll simply work harder and operate smarter and smash our enemy decisively like this.” Dai Uy brought the pommel of his knife down hard and mashed that leech flatter than a deuce of spades.
We were all feeling a bit grumpy because of our lack of success. It seemed we’d gone farther and fared worse than at any time during my previous four tours in ’Nam.
Waneous spoke up and said, “All right! We’re turning south and heading for Dong Tam. We’ll have a hot meal before we know it.”
We had gotten only a few hundred meters when we came to a dead stop beside an RMK-BRJ (American construction conglomerate) truck loaded with asphalt. Once our truck had stopped, it became very hot in the reefer, and soon all of us were dreaming about chugalugging a refreshing, ice-cold beer—even a Ba Muoi Ba would do.
Eberle became visibly annoyed and started mumbling to himself. Waneous and I decided that we had best open the back doors slightly for a little fresh air to cool off the situation.
Waneous looked at me and I looked at him—we both knew what we had to do. Our frustration levels required action. It was get-even time. I handed him a CS
grenade—Waneous was closer to the door than I was—and said, “Wait until we start to pull forward, then drop our messenger of thanksgiving down on the pavement.”
Waneous looked at me, then to Dai Uy with an expression of absolute glee.
Eberle, with a sullen look on his face, saw and heard what was about to happen and commented emphatically, “Revenge is good for the soul.”
After waiting patiently in our humid oven for more than ten minutes, our truck finally began pulling forward very slowly. Waneous leaned forward and clandestinely dropped the CS grenade to the pavement below as we pulled alongside the RMK-BRJ truck. The Vietnamese driver didn’t hear the spoon fly away from the grenade or the hissing of the gas as it slowly formed into a huge cloud. On the other side of the road and going in the opposite direction was a Vietnamese Lambretta that was loaded down with eight passengers and their baggage. No one seemed to notice or pay any attention to the white cloud that was drifting across the highway toward them.
When the CS gas enveloped the outside worker, who was standing in front of the truck filled with asphalt, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t understand what was happening; couldn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary, but he sure felt his eyes watering and his lungs choking from something. The poor fellow was obviously perplexed, and became frantic in his actions by rapidly walking downwind, where he found no relief from the unknown mist. His body movements became spasmodic as he started shuffling around in confusion, seeking relief. By that time all of us were peeking out the back of the reefer with tears streaming down our cheeks as we howled in laughter at the poor guy.
The truck driver was preoccupied with watching his fellow worker’s antics in disbelief and amazement until
he got a whiff of the gas. It was no wonder that RMK-BRJ employed him as a truck driver, for he knew trouble when he smelled it. He leaped from the truck cab, hit the pavement peeling rubber off the bottom of his sandals, sprinted past his battered, bruised, and bewildered buddy and headed for the wide open spaces of the adjacent rice paddy, which was located conveniently downwind.
By this time the occupants of the Lambretta had become concerned at the unusual antics of the truck driver and the worker, who had been walking into the truck as if blind. They must have thought that he had been recently chewing too much betel nut, until they also got a good snort of the sickening smoke. While he sprinted to the east, one of the occupants let out a curse implying that there had been incest within his immediate family. Two women screamed and cast their packages and parcels aside and joined the rest of the occupants as they abandoned the Lambretta and turkey-trotted through the muck toward the center of the rice paddy and the weeping truck driver. The addled worker finally worked his way to the edge of the field, where he fell into the marshy rice paddy in exhaustion. At least we weren’t leaving the place in carnage, I thought as we continued on our way.
We were in a great mood until we returned to our barracks, where we were told that we had no water to clean our weapons, gear, and bodies. It appeared that the ARVN 7th Division had the last laugh after all—they controlled the source of water.
The next morning, September eighth, all hands assisted our Seabee mates in running an underground water line from the U.S. Navy compound under the perimeter fence to our shower area, located in the midst of our friendly Vietnamese pals and their barracks. Senior Chief Bassett had come through again. The Seabees even furnished the materials. By evening the water line was laid and November
Platoon was finally able to take much needed showers.
At 0800 on September ninth, Dai Uy gave his warning order for the seven of us—himself, Tam, Knepper, Quear, Chambo, Eberle, and me. Our mission was to locate and destroy the VC Dong Thap One Regiment’s technical subsection. This unit monitored U.S. and ARVN sector and subsector TOC broadcasts and transmitted—by captured PRC-25 and fifteen-watt radios—false information to the ARVN TOCs and field units. A VC specialist had broken the ARVN’s code. Unfortunately, the men of the Technical Subsection had a nasty habit of moving their location at least once every ten days. And at night tripwire grenades were set around their enclave. This VC unit was located in Ham Long district, Kien Hoa province, just across the river from Dinh Tuong province. MSS and 525 sources stated that there was a possible local VC company within the area of the technical subsection, which was always guarded by a platoon of local VC. There was no doubt in my mind that Dai Uy had become very frustrated by our lack of success in the field. I found out what it was like to be under pressure from Staff the previous year while I was advising the Biet Hai and LDNNs. Unfortunately, little had changed in ’71.
Later that morning, Doc and I went to My Tho and requested an update on 525’s intel report on a POW camp that was supposedly located in the northern portion of Cai Lay district. After our return to Dong Tam, I prepared my gear for the next day’s op until our tae kwon do practice with Captain Kim at 1630. After Dai Uy had given his PLO at 1900, we hit the sack to catch a few hours of shut-eye before our 0230 reveille.
For some reason, I wasn’t able to sleep that night. I kept thinking back to the days of the early sixties when I was working in the North Texas oil field wrenching
sucker rods and pulling tubing out of the oil pumping units for McAllister Well Service, located in Wichita Falls, Texas. I never forgot those 110- to 115-degree days when the sweat pouring down my shirtless upper body, which was coated with paraffin and oil, felt like a continuous column of centipedes plodding downward to parts unknown. The pay was poor and there were no benefits.