Medal of Honor

by Matt Jackson

“Where you from?” asked Thomas.

  “Kermit, Texas, and that is hot. No humidity, just heat.”

  “Ohio gets hot in the summer, but we freeze our asses off in the winter,” Thomas informed the others as the plane continued to unload in front of them. It had been a long fourteen-hour flight from McChord Air Force Base in Tacoma, Washington, with a layover for two hours in the Philippines for refueling and crew change. Everyone was anxious to get off the plane and stretch their legs. As no one had anything more than a shaving kit in the cabin with them, things moved rapidly and smoothly.

  Outside, they lined up and started walking across the tarmac in two lines to a long single-story wooden building with a tin roof. Screens surrounded the top half and sandbags covered the bottom half. Upon entering, each man gave his name to a clerk, who checked the manifest and handed them a toothbrush and toothpaste.

  Dorsey asked, “Why are we doing this, Sergeant?”

  “Private, do I look like a dentist?” the sergeant responded with some sarcasm but continued, “You’re doing this so you won’t be seeing a dentist for the next year. You don’t want to see a dentist for the next year because the drills are all foot-pump-powered. This toothpaste has a high concentration of fluoride, which prevents cavities. Now go brush.”

  Moving outside, Dorsey located his bag and moved with Avanti and Thomas to the dark green OD buses. Once loaded, the buses moved out with dimmed headlights across an almost blacked-out base. There was little to see on this moonless night. In the distance, flares appeared almost magically in the night sky with no sound and burned for a couple of minutes as they floated down, extinguishing before they reached the ground. After a five-minute ride, the bus stopped in front of another one-story building similar to the first. Going inside, they saw sixty bunk beds with sheets and a pillow but no blankets.

  Once everyone was inside, an NCO got their attention. “All right, listen up. You will be staying here tonight. Pick a bunk and get some sleep. The mess hall opens at oh six hundred hours and serves from oh six hundred to oh eight hundred hours. At oh nine hundred hours, the buses will be back and get you on the next leg to the units you’ve been assigned to. If you hear a siren, then I suggest you get on the floor and stay there until it stops. That’s the safest place.” With that, the NCO was out the door and gone.

  Dorsey and Avanti picked a bunk bed and tossed a coin to see who would sleep on the top bunk. Thomas took the top bunk next to them. Very soon, the only sounds were those created by one hundred and twenty men sleeping.

  The next morning they got their first look at Vietnam. To the east, the sun was rising over what appeared to be a large enclosed area with barbed-wire fences as well as airplane hangars. Jet engines could be heard as a couple of F-4 fighter jets lifted off the runway. To the northwest, large tents had been set up, and beyond, a few people could be seen in the fields outside the barbed wire, planting rice or whatever was growing there. They were dressed in loose light-colored tops and loose-fitting black pants that appeared to be silk. Their heads were covered with wide, round straw hats with a point at the top. One person was walking behind a water buffalo plowing the fields. The farmers were being watched by two soldiers in ten-foot-tall watchtowers spaced about fifty yards apart with a M60 machine gun in each tower. North of the camp were sparse hardwood trees, mixed with palm trees and brush. Separating the camp from the vegetation was a double barbed-wire-and-concertina fence with land mine symbols every thirty feet.

  “Guess we shouldn’t wander over there,” Dorsey said, looking at his two buddies as they walked back from the mess hall.

  “Everyone on orders to the First Cav, load the first two buses; 101st, load the next two,” the NCO instructed those standing next to their duffle bags a half hour later. Several groups had already left, and these men were the last of those who had arrived the night before on Dorsey’s flight.

  Picking up their bags, Avanti, Thomas and Dorsey loaded a bus designated for the First Cav as their names were called off the roster by the NCO.

  As the bus pulled away, leaving the newbies standing in front of another wooden building, the NCO in charge spoke up. “You people are going to be here for five days. In those five days, you will be issued your field equipment, weapons, jungle fatigues and boots. You will be in-processed. You will be given classes on booby traps and rappelling. You will be going to the rifle range and hand grenade pits. Learn well, because when you leave here, you are stepping into the badlands. Outside the wire is the badlands.” He pointed across the minefield. “If you hear a siren at any time, hit the ground or find a bunker to get into. If you have a weapon and hear small-arms fire, move to the nearest perimeter berm and do as others are doing. Any questions?” He paused, but no one said anything. “Good. As there are no questions, we will head over to Supply so you can draw sheets. Chow is served at twelve hundred to thirteen thirty hours—follow your nose to find it. Dinner is at seventeen hundred to eighteen thirty hours. Your first formation tomorrow will be at oh eight hundred hours and begins with in-processing.”

  The next morning began as promised with in-processing, which was done alphabetically by name. Avanti was one of the first to go into the room.

  “Avanti, from Brooklyn,” stated the personnel clerk. He was a specialist fourth class, which technically outranked private first class.

  “That’s me,” Avanti answered.

  “MOS is 11 Bravo, Infantry, correct?” the clerk stated matter-of-factly, referring to Avanti’s military occupational specialty.

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, you’re being assigned to First of the Twelfth Infantry.” He handed Avanti a clipboard and some forms. “Check these over and make sure they’re correct. When you’re done, give them to the clerk next to the door and go out. If something needs to be changed, he’ll correct it. Next.”

  This process continued with everyone being notified of where they were going depending on their MOS. Some were going to aviation units as they were aircraft maintenance or aviation electronics repairmen. If you were an 11 Bravo, you were infantry, and that was where you were going. If you were a cook, you could go anywhere.

  “Next,” the personnel clerk calls out. “Dorsey, Jim, PFC, 67A1F.” Standing Dorsey walks with a purpose to the Specialist’s desk.

  “That you?”the Specialist asks.

  “Yeah, Specialist, that’s my name, but I’m an 11 Bravo.”

  For a long minute, the clerk looked at the papers before him. “Go sit back down. You’re an 11 Bravo, you say?” he asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Your papers have you being assigned to an aviation unit as a 67A1F, door gunner. Someone screwed up. Let me talk to the NCOIC and get this straight.”

  With that, the clerk got up and walked over to an office at the other end of the building. A few minutes later, he came back, scratching his head.

  “Dorsey, get over here. Look these forms over, and if the information is correct, give it to the guy at the end of the building as you’re leaving,” he said as he handed the clipboard to Dorsey.

  “Well, where am I going?” Dorsey asked.

  “You’re assigned to an aviation company as a door gunner. Company A, 227th Aviation Battalion. Good luck.”

  “What? I really don’t want to be a door gunner. I’m infantry. This has to be a mistake. I don’t really care for flying.”

  “Look, be happy you’re going to be a door gunner. You get three hots and a cot to sleep in each day, a shower each night, and an extra sixty dollars a month for flight pay,” an NCO stated, coming up behind Dorsey.

  “But, Sergeant, it’s dangerous being a door gunner in a helicopter. I’d really rather be in an infantry assignment.”

  “Being a door gunner isn’t dangerous, and almost any other guy here would be jumping on this, so take it and be thankful,” the NCO explained.

  “If it’s not dangerous, then why am I getting paid an extra sixty dollars each month?” Dorsey was beginning to see that he was
losing the argument.

  “The extra sixty each month is flight pay, so enjoy it and get moving.” The NCO pointed at the exit door.3

  Outside, Avanti and Thomas were waiting for him. Both were going to infantry battalions. When he told them where he was going, they were astonished.

  “How the hell did you pull that duty? Damn your ass. We’ll be humping our asses off and you’ll be sitting pretty. Lucky bastard,” Avanti cried.

  The next four days were a boring blur of being treated like a trainee again. At the end of the fourth day, the NCO that had been shepherding them told them that in the morning, they would board a C-7 Caribou airplane and fly to Phuoc Vinh to join their units—only now they had two duffle bags to carry instead of one because of the additional uniforms and equipment they had been issued at Supply, to include steel pot helmet, flak jacket, web belt with suspenders, canteen and cup, ammo pouches, poncho liner, and poncho.

  Arriving at Phuoc Vinh the next morning, Dorsey quickly determined that he didn’t want to stay in this place. Phuoc Vinh consisted of one runway of corrugated metal about four thousand feet long, so it could accommodate small fixed-wing aircraft and helicopters but nothing else. There were no trees anywhere. Even outside the perimeter, the place was devoid of any trees, with only low vegetation for about a half mile. A fine red clay dust covered the single-story hooches like those they’d slept in at Long Binh. And it was hot and humid to boot. As they left the C-7 Caribou, a bus arrived and Dorsey was told to get on along with everyone else.

  “Listen up, people. I will be dropping you off at your respective units. At each stop, I will call out the unit, so grab your crap and get out,” instructed the driver, a specialist. As the bus left the tarmac, the driver hollered out, “First stop, 227th Aviation. Anyone?”

  “Yeah,” said Dorsey.

  “Me as well,” a baby-faced warrant officer spoke up. The driver looked up at the inside mirror, recognizing the two responses and noting one was from an officer.

  “Yes, sir” was the driver’s less-than-professional response as he made sure to lurch the bus to a stop, enjoying the opportunity to watch an officer being pitched forward. He did not particularly like officers. “Your battalion headquarters is through that door there,” he added, pointing at a hooch. Over the door was the unit’s crest, indicating HQ, 227th AHB.

  Grabbing his bags, Dorsey followed the warrant officer off the bus and into the building.

  A sergeant first class was seated behind a counter along with a clerk pounding away on a manual typewriter.

  “Can I help you, sir?” asked the sergeant, standing up and approaching the counter that separated the work area from a foyer of sorts.

  “Yes, Sergeant. I’m Warrant Officer Roger Reid, reporting in. Here are my orders,” the officer responded, handing a packet to the sergeant, which he accepted. Reid was like almost every other new warrant officer as height and weight standards for pilots put the average pilot at five foot eight and one hundred and fifty pounds. His baby face also reflected the youth of warrant officer pilots as most were recent high school graduates or college drop outs. Roger was from the island of Jamaica and the humid heat of Vietnam did not affect him much.

  “Private, have a seat over there. I will be with you in a minute. Give me your packet.” Dorsey handed over the packet and took a seat as directed. Another exercise in hurry up and wait, he thought. Taking Dorsey’s packet, the NCO handed it to the clerk and told him to start processing Dorsey into the unit while he opened Warrant Officer Reid’s packet.

  “Hey, Sarge, this guy is a grunt assigned to A company as a door gunner,” the clerk said with a question mark expression as he read Dorsey’s personnel file.

  The sergeant looked up and eyeballed Dorsey. “You extend to be a door gunner, Private?”

  “No, Sergeant. I just arrived in-country,” Dorsey answered.

  “Well, how the hell did you get door gunner duty?”

  “I have no idea, Sergeant,” Dorsey responded.

  Mumbling to himself, the sergeant turned his attention back to Mr. Reid. “Sir, if you want, the mess hall is open for lunch right now. It’s going to take me an hour to process your paperwork and arrange a flight for you to your unit. You’re assigned to Alpha Company and they’re located at Lai Khe, about a twenty-minute flight from here. You can get some lunch and I should have everything arranged by then. If you don’t mind, could you take the private with you?” the sergeant asked, nodding his head in Dorsey’s direction.

  “Not a problem, Sergeant. Private, you want to go get some chow?” Mr. Reid asked Dorsey.

  “Sure, sir.” Dorsey got up and headed for the door, holding it for Mr. Reid.

  As they went through the door, introductions were made. “I’m Reid,” said the warrant officer, extending his hand.

  “How do you do, sir? Private First Class Jim Dorsey. I guess we’re assigned to the same company.”

  As they walked towards the mess hall, the game of twenty questions was played. Where you from? Are you married? Got a girlfriend? What sports do you play? Entering the mess hall, they found roast beef being served for lunch and were a bit surprised that hamburgers and French fries weren’t offered, but they were hungry, so they took what was offered. After lunch, they returned to the battalion headquarters.

  “Sir, we have you all squared away. You too, Private,” said the sergeant first class. “Harris here will drive you both to the flight line,” he added, indicating the clerk. “A Huey will pick you up sometime this afternoon and take you to your new home. The Huey will have a green triangle on the doors with a lightning bolt through the triangle. Good luck to you both.” Harris came around the counter, picked up Mr. Reid’s duffle bags and headed out the door. Dorsey quickly got the idea that no one was picking up his duffle bags.

  Chapter 4

  Home of the Infantry

  Infantry Hall, Fort Benning, Georgia was a six-story building built in the early 1960s. Attached on both sides were one-story wings with ten two-hundred-man classrooms and ten thirty-man classrooms in each wing. On any day, those classrooms were filled with infantry captains attending the Infantry Officers’ Advanced Course or lieutenants attending the Infantry Officers’ Basic Course, which all newly commissioned infantry officers had to attend be they second lieutenants, first lieutenants, or captains. On the third floor was the office of Captain Jack Oliver, Infantry Branch Representative to the Infantry Center.

  “Lieutenant, are you nuts? Do you have a death wish?” asked Captain Jack Oliver. Captain Oliver had already served two tours in Vietnam, both with the First Cavalry Division.

  “No, sir,” replied First Lieutenant Dan Cory. Dan was attending the Infantry Officers’ Basic Course as he had been commissioned while in Vietnam and had not yet attended. Most of his classmates were new second lieutenants, with one other first lieutenant who, like Dan, had been a warrant officer pilot when he’d received his commission. The class commander was a prior warrant who was older and had been promoted to captain. Dan was the only one asking to return to Vietnam.

  “You just completed nineteen months in Nam as a chopper pilot and you want to return. Hell, son, you’ve only been back in the States three weeks. You still have to finish the Infantry Officers’ Basic Course, and that won’t be over until the beginning of November,” Captain Oliver pointed out.

  “Yes, sir, but Branch already disapproved my application for Ranger school, so I want to get back to Nam as an infantry officer now that I am one,” Cory argued.

  “Damn right we disapproved your application for Ranger school, and if you drop a packet for Airborne, I’ll disapprove that too. You’re a pilot with two thousand hours of combat flying. We send you off to Ranger school or jump school and you get hurt, we lose an experienced aviator. In either of those, you could dislocate a knee, break a leg or something else. You want to be a Ranger or Airborne, eat a worm and jump off a desktop. Disapproved. Period.” Captain Oliver was becoming a bit upset.

  But Cory wa
sn’t ready to surrender yet. He took a different tack. “Look, sir, if I can get back to Nam as an infantry officer and get some ground experience, then I’ll be a better officer. I’m not married. I have no family ties. It just makes sense to send me back rather than some married guy.”

  The captain paused to think for a moment. “I can get you back to Nam, but that’s no guarantee how they’ll use you. Platoon leaders are generally second lieutenants, with any first lieutenants being staff or company executive officers. And add to that the fact that several units are coming home and standing down, you’ll probably get there and be rear detachment shit detail officer and not on the line.”

  “Sir, you just get me back to Nam and I’ll work on my assignment once I’m there.”

  “Yeah, you’ll probably hound the crap out of them like you’ve done to me. I suppose you want to be reassigned to the First Cavalry Division, don’t you?” Captain Oliver said with a slight smile as he adjusted his First Cavalry Division coffee mug.

  “That would be mighty nice of you, sir, if you could make that happen.”

  “You realize that you’ll be going back before the Christmas holidays, don’t you? If you were going over after the first of the new year, I probably couldn’t make this work. They’re cutting back on sending infantry officers over.” Taking a sip of his coffee and glaring up at Cory, Captain Oliver thought, This kid has to be nuts, but I can’t fault his enthusiasm. “All right, let me work on this since you’re so fired up about returning to the Southeast Asian Games. Now get out and let me get some work done.”

  Lieutenant Cory came to the position of attention and saluted smartly with a broad smile. “Thank you, sir, and good day.”

  The captain returned his salute. “You too, Lieutenant, and don’t tell your buddies. I don’t want them in here begging.”

  Cory walked down the hall to the elevators that would take him to the ground floor of Infantry Hall. Infantry Hall housed the US Army Infantry School, where officers as well as NCOs received instruction on a variety of subjects, to include infantry tactics, leadership, logistics, legal matters under the Uniform Code of Military Conduct, and administration and medical management. A two-hour block of instruction for lieutenants was airmobile operations. Cory found it comical what they were teaching the new second lieutenants in this class. He wrote up his critique sheet on the class, indicating that it was the worst block of instruction. Little did he know that those comments would come back and bite him in the ass a couple of years later.