gone, quickly forgotten, until the quiet times, when dark memories slipped back into consciousness, uninvited.
I spent my days inspecting the men and their training, just to get them used to seeing me, and to help if I could. I had my choice of a new lieutenant to replace Jefferson, and chose 2d Lt. Ray Lawrence, who had just come up from Nha Trang as a replacement. He was a tall, gangly redhead, born and raised in South Carolina. Ray was perfect in temperament for command of a Montagnard platoon. I never saw him angry or impatient with his troops, who could do things that would drive a teetotaler to drink.
The eager, young Montagnard soldiers were anxious to please me and tried their best to do what I asked of them. Most could understand pidgin English, or even more, unless I tried to fuss at one of them for messing up. Then it was, “So solly,please, no understand English.” Compared to Americans, they were little fellows. Most were well under five feet six inches, and dark brown from all the years in the bright Southeast Asia sun. Many were seasoned troops who had survived the Lang Vei fight in February of ’68. Prior to that, they had been run out of their traditional home in Northern Laos by the NVA. They were very brave and tried hard to be good soldiers when Americans led them. They didn’t like the Vietnamese and wouldn’t fight for the ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) Special Forces officers assigned to our unit. That suited me fine as I wanted to command them personally.
I made it a point to find a tall Yard to be my radio operator, since I’d learn the hard way in my first tour that the VC liked to start an ambush by shooting at the taller targets, who were usually Americans. I considered that a most unfair way to start any fight, but if they insisted on being so determined to shoot me, I did my best to make it hard for them to find me.
To my satisfaction, one of the soldiers in the company was nearly six feet tall. If I hunched down, we would present two similar targets instead of one to an eagle-eyed VC rifleman. The tall Yard’s name was Pham Tuc, and he had the usual baby face and dark, chocolate-colored skin of the Montagnard. He was thin, wiry, and tough, and stronger than a person would ever imagine from looking at him. Pham was proud as could be to be chosen for the honor of carrying the
Dai Uy
’s radio. I never went to the field without him. He was barely seventeen, and come to find out, the son of the headman in his home village. Pham was a brave and loyal soldier, and I sort of unofficially adopted him like an older son. His karma and mine all interwoven, we grew to be very fond of one another.
Colonel Isler sent for me toward the end of the month. Briefly, we discussed my company and how I evaluated their skills at soldiering. “Nick, I want you to fly up to Bon Hai with the body of the striker killed Thursday in the grenade accident.”
A Montagnard soldier from recon team Coral had beensetting up an ambush during training exercises. Apparently, he’d pulled the pin on a hand grenade prior to setting a booby trap, and the grenade exploded in his hands. Since he was a member of my company, I had been waiting at the dispensary when they brought in the body. Pham had been with me because he claimed the dead striker was a cousin from his village.
The M-26 grenade is a deadly efficient antipersonnel weapon in which notched piano wire is wrapped around an explosive charge. When the charge blows, the wrapped wire breaks and fans out in a thousand little shards of hot death. Hold a grenade in your hands when it explodes, and it makes quite a mess. The dead striker was shredded meat, no hands or face, and most of his insides, outside. Pham was white faced, but otherwise took the tragedy well because the Yards believed in reincarnation, that death was only the first step in a new start, hopefully in better circumstances.
Colonel Isler continued. “The dead striker came from the
I spent my days inspecting the men and their training, just to get them used to seeing me, and to help if I could. I had my choice of a new lieutenant to replace Jefferson, and chose 2d Lt. Ray Lawrence, who had just come up from Nha Trang as a replacement. He was a tall, gangly redhead, born and raised in South Carolina. Ray was perfect in temperament for command of a Montagnard platoon. I never saw him angry or impatient with his troops, who could do things that would drive a teetotaler to drink.
The eager, young Montagnard soldiers were anxious to please me and tried their best to do what I asked of them. Most could understand pidgin English, or even more, unless I tried to fuss at one of them for messing up. Then it was, “So solly,please, no understand English.” Compared to Americans, they were little fellows. Most were well under five feet six inches, and dark brown from all the years in the bright Southeast Asia sun. Many were seasoned troops who had survived the Lang Vei fight in February of ’68. Prior to that, they had been run out of their traditional home in Northern Laos by the NVA. They were very brave and tried hard to be good soldiers when Americans led them. They didn’t like the Vietnamese and wouldn’t fight for the ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) Special Forces officers assigned to our unit. That suited me fine as I wanted to command them personally.
I made it a point to find a tall Yard to be my radio operator, since I’d learn the hard way in my first tour that the VC liked to start an ambush by shooting at the taller targets, who were usually Americans. I considered that a most unfair way to start any fight, but if they insisted on being so determined to shoot me, I did my best to make it hard for them to find me.
To my satisfaction, one of the soldiers in the company was nearly six feet tall. If I hunched down, we would present two similar targets instead of one to an eagle-eyed VC rifleman. The tall Yard’s name was Pham Tuc, and he had the usual baby face and dark, chocolate-colored skin of the Montagnard. He was thin, wiry, and tough, and stronger than a person would ever imagine from looking at him. Pham was proud as could be to be chosen for the honor of carrying the
Dai Uy
’s radio. I never went to the field without him. He was barely seventeen, and come to find out, the son of the headman in his home village. Pham was a brave and loyal soldier, and I sort of unofficially adopted him like an older son. His karma and mine all interwoven, we grew to be very fond of one another.
Colonel Isler sent for me toward the end of the month. Briefly, we discussed my company and how I evaluated their skills at soldiering. “Nick, I want you to fly up to Bon Hai with the body of the striker killed Thursday in the grenade accident.”
A Montagnard soldier from recon team Coral had beensetting up an ambush during training exercises. Apparently, he’d pulled the pin on a hand grenade prior to setting a booby trap, and the grenade exploded in his hands. Since he was a member of my company, I had been waiting at the dispensary when they brought in the body. Pham had been with me because he claimed the dead striker was a cousin from his village.
The M-26 grenade is a deadly efficient antipersonnel weapon in which notched piano wire is wrapped around an explosive charge. When the charge blows, the wrapped wire breaks and fans out in a thousand little shards of hot death. Hold a grenade in your hands when it explodes, and it makes quite a mess. The dead striker was shredded meat, no hands or face, and most of his insides, outside. Pham was white faced, but otherwise took the tragedy well because the Yards believed in reincarnation, that death was only the first step in a new start, hopefully in better circumstances.
Colonel Isler continued. “The dead striker came from the
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