The Green Berets: The Amazing Story of the U. S. Army's Elite Special Forces Unit

by Robin Moore

  Train looked at me and smiled. “Our civilian, of course, came out best. Landed in a field the size of the volleyball court, threw his air items in the bag and helped pull his team together.”

  I looked out the window across the rice paddies where every peasant could be and probably was a VC. “At least they didn’t have shit-dipped pungi stakes waiting for us in North Carolina,” I said.

  Train frowned briefly at my language. “I guess you and Kornie will get along fine, at that. As I remember, you pulled a few tricks on that exercise that weren’t even in the books.”

  Fenz took this as his cue to volunteer the information that there was an Otter flying down to Phan Chau that afternoon with an interpreter to replace the one killed a few days before on patrol.

  “You might as well take it,” Train said. “How long do you want to stay?”

  “Can’t I just play it by ear, Colonel?”

  “Certainly. If it looks like there’s going to be serious trouble I’ll get you evacuated.”

  “Negative! Please?”

  Train stared at me; I met the look. Train gave a shrug. “OK, I’ll go along with you, but I still don’t—”

  “No sweat. I don’t want to get myself greased any more than you do.”

  “OK, get your gear together. Got your own weapon?”

  “If you could lend me a folding-stock carbine and a few banana clips, that’s all I need.”

  “Fenz, can you fix him up?”

  “Yes, sir. The Otter takes off at 1300 hours.”

  “One thing,” Train cautioned. “Kornie is upset because we transferred two companies of Hoa Hao troops from his camp on orders from the Vietnamese division commander, General Co. You know about the Hoa Hao?”

  “They’re supposed to be fierce fighters, aren’t they?”

  “That’s right. They’re a religious sect in the Mekong Delta with slightly different ethnic origins from the Vietnamese. General Co didn’t like having two companies of Hoa Hao fighting together.”

  “You mean with coup fever raging, he was afraid the Hoa Hao might get together and make a deal with one of his rival generals?”

  “We try to keep out of politics,” Train said testily. “General Co’s reasoning is not my concern.”

  “But it would concern Kornie to find himself on the Cambodian border in the middle of VC territory suddenly minus two companies of his best fighting mean.”

  Train snorted in exasperation. “Just don’t take Kornie’s opinions on Vietnamese politics too seriously.”

  “I’ll use discretion in anything I say,” I promised.

  “I hope so.” It sounded like a threat.

  Looking down at the sere-brown rice paddies, I felt a sense of quickening excitement as the little eight-place single-engine plane closed on Phan Chau in a hilly section along the Cambodian border. Across from me sat the thin, ascetic-looking young Vietnamese interpreter.

  I thought of Steve Kornie. His first name was Sven actually. He was, at forty-four, a captain, as compared to Train, who was a lieutenant colonel at thirty-nine.

  Kornie, originally a Finn, fought the Russians when they invaded his native land. Later he had joined the German Army and miraculously survived two years of fighting the Russians on the eastern front. After the war came a period in his life he never talked about. His career was re-entered on the record book when, under the Lodge Act of the early fifties, which permitted foreign nationals who joined the United States Army in Europe to become eligible for U.S. citizenship after five years’ service, Kornie enlisted.

  In a barroom brawl in Germany in 1955, Kornie and some of his more obstreperous GI companions had committed the usually disastrous error of tangling with several soldiers wearing green berets with silver Trojan horse insignias on them. The blue-eyed Nordic giant, after decking twice his weight in berets, finally agreed to a truce.

  Suspiciously he allowed these soldiers, who in spite of their alien headdress proclaimed themselves Americans, to buy him a drink. In his career with several armies he had never fought such tough barehanded fighters. As the several victims of Kornie’s fists and flat-handed chops came to, shook their heads, found their berets and replaced them on their heads, it became clear to Kornie that they were asking him to join their group. To his surprise and horror he discovered that one man he had knocked over the bar was a major.

  Before the evening was over Kornie discovered the existence of the 10th Special Forces Group at Bad Tölz, had given the major his name, rank and serial number, and had been promised that he would soon be transferred to the elite, highly trained, virtually secret unit of the U.S. Army to which these men in green berets so proudly belonged.

  When Special Forces realized the extent of Sven Kornie’s combat experience and language capabilities, the CO at Bad Tölz believed his claim that he had gone to the military college for almost three years in Finland, although his academic records had been lost in the war and he could not prove his educational qualifications. Kornie was sent to Officer Candidate School, and Special Forces was waiting to reclaim him immediately upon graduation. He performed many covert as well as overt missions in Europe as a Special Forces officer, several times on loan to the CIA, and finally, having reached the grade of captain, he was shipped to the 5th Special Forces Group at the Special Warfare Center, Fort Bragg.

  In his early forties he knew his chances of ever making field grade were slim. For one thing, while in uniform he had killed a German civilian he knew to be a Russian agent with a single punch. Extenuating circumstances had won him an acquittal at his court-martial; nevertheless the affair was distasteful, particularly to conservative old line officers on promotion boards. There was also Kornie’s inability to prove any higher education.

  Sven Kornie was the ideal Special Forces officer. Special Forces was his life; fighting, especially unorthodox warfare, was what he lived for. He had no career to sacrifice; he had no desire to rise from operational to supervisory levels. And not the least of his assets, he was unmarried and had no attachments to anyone or anything in the world beyond Special Forces.

  My thoughts of Kornie and speculations as to what fascinating mischief he would be up to were interrupted by the interpreter.

  “Are you posted to Phan Chau?”

  I shook my head, but he had an explanation coming. I wore the complete Special Forces uniform, the light-weight jungle fatigues and my highly prized green beret which an A team had given me after a combat mission.

  “I will visit Phan Chau for maybe a week. I am a writer. A journalist. You understand?”

  The interpreter’s face lit up. “Ah, journalist. Yes. What journal you write for?” Hopefully: “Time magazine? Maybe Newsweek? Life?”

  He couldn’t disguise his disappointment when he learned what a free-lance writer was.

  We were getting close to Phan Chau. I recognized the area from several parachute supply drops I had flown to familiarize myself with the terrain.

  The little Otter began circling. Only a few miles off I could look into Cambodia, the border running down the middle of the rough, rocky terrain. A dirt landing strip appeared below and in moments the plane was bumping along it.

  I threw my combat pack out on the ground, and when the small plane had come to a complete stop jumped out after it. I saw a green beret among the camouflage-capped Vietnamese strike-force troopers milling around, and went up to the American sergeant and told him who I was. He recognized my name and mission, but I was surprised to hear Kornie wasn’t expecting me.

  “Sometimes we can’t read the B team for half a day,” the sergeant explained. “The old man will be glad to see you. He’s been wondering when you were coming.”

  “I guess I missed some action this morning.”

  “Yeah, it was a tough one. Four strikers KIA. We usually don’t get ambushed so close to camp.” The sergeant introduced himself to me as Borst, the radio operator. He was a well-set young man, his cropped hair below the green beret yellow, and his blue eyes fierce
. I wondered if Kornie had collected an all-Viking A team. Anything unusual, with flair and color, would be typical Kornie.

  “The old man is working out some big deal with Sergeant Bergholtz, he’s our team sergeant, and Sergeant Falk, intelligence.”

  “Where’s Lieutenant Schmelzer?” I asked. “I knew him at Bragg last year while you were all in mission training.”

  “He’s still out with the patrol that was ambushed. They sent back the bodies and the wounded, and then kept going.”

  Sergeant Borst picked up my combat pack, carried it to the truck, and threw it in back with the strikers and the new interpreter. He motioned me into the front seat, looked behind to make sure the mounted .30-caliber machine gun was manned, and drove off as soon as the Otter was airborne.

  The low, white buildings with dark roofs which rose above the mud walls of Phan Chau, and the tall steel fire-control tower were visible from the airstrip. Beyond them, directly west, loomed the rocky foothills which spilled along both sides of the Vietnam-Cambodia border. There were more hills and a scrub-brush jungle north of Phan Chau. To the south the land was open and bare. The airstrip was only a mile east of the camp.

  “This the new camp?”

  “Yes, sir,” Borst answered. “The old one next to the town of Phan Chau was something else. Hills on all sides. We called it little Dien Bien Phu. Here at least we’ve got some open fields of fire and the VC can’t drop mortar fire on us from above.”

  “From what I hear, you’re out of that old French camp just in time.”

  “That’s what we figure. They’d clobber us there. When this one is finished we’ll be able to hold off about anything they can throw at us.”

  As we drove into the square fort, with sandbagged mud walls studded with machine-gun emplacements and surrounded with barbed wire, I could see men working on the walls and putting out more barbed wire. “Do you still have much work to do?”

  “Quite a bit, sir. We’re sure hoping we don’t get hit in the next few days. The camp isn’t secure yet.”

  Borst stopped before the Vietnamese Special Forces headquarters to let off the strikers and the new interpreter, and then drove me another twenty feet to a cement-block building with a wooden roof. He pulled to a stop and jumped out. Borst beat me inside and I heard him announce me.

  It took a moment for my eyes to get used to the cool interior grayness after the hot, bright sunlight. The big form of Sven Kornie came toward me. He had a large grin on his lean, pleasant face and his blue eyes snapped. His huge hand enveloped mine as he welcomed me to Phan Chau. He introduced me to Sergeant Bergholtz, and I sensed my guess was correct that a Germanic-Viking crew had indeed been transported intact to the Vietnam-Cambodia border.

  “Well, well,” Kornie boomed cheerfully. “You come here at a dangerous time.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “By God damn! Those Vietnamese generals—stupid! Dangerous stupid. Two hundred fifty my best men that sneak-eyed yellow-skin bastard corps commander take out of here yesterday—and our big American generals? Politics they play while this camp gets zapped.”

  “What are you talking about, Steve?”

  “Two hundred fifty Hoa Hao fighting men I had. The best. Now General Co decides he don’t want any Hoa Hao companies fighting together because maybe they get together under their colonel and pull another coup. So he breaks up the best fighting units in the Mekong Delta. God damn fool! And Phan Chau, what happens? We get more Vietnamese strikers we don’t know if they fight for us or VC. You better go back to the B team,” he finished lugubriously.

  “Too late now,” I said. “What action have you got going?”

  “Two actions. The VC got one action and we got one. Tell him, Bergholtz.”

  The team sergeant began his briefing. “The VC have been making ladders for a couple of weeks now in all their villages. They’re also making caskets. That means they figure on hitting us sometime soon. The ladders they use to throw across the barbed wire and the mine fields and later as stretchers to carry away the dead and wounded. The VC fight better when they know they’re going to get a funeral and a nice wood box if they’re killed. They see the coffins, it makes their morale go up.”

  “We are not ready for attack,” Kornie said, “so it probably comes soon.”

  “What’s Schmelzer’s patrol doing?”

  Kornie’s deep laugh boomed out. “Schmelzer is looking for KKK.”

  “KKK? I thought we were in South Vietnam, not South Carolina.”

  “The KKK are Cambodian bandits. They fight only for money. They are very bad boys. Tell him, Bergholtz.”

  “Yes, sir.” The team sergeant turned his rugged face to me. “The KKK—that’s what everyone calls them—live around these hills. They even attack our patrols for the weapons if they are strong enough. We figure the ambush today may have been KKK. Last week four Buddhist monks went through here to Cambodia to buy gold leaf, for their temple. All the local Buddhists kicked in to buy the stuff. You can’t buy gold in Vietnam.” Bergholtz paused. “We told the monks they’d better stay home but they said Buddha would protect them.”

  Kornie finished the story. “Three days ago I was leading a patrol in KKK area. We find the monks. They are lying on the trail, each has his head under his left arm. The KKK got them and their gold.”

  “And Schmelzer is going to get the KKK?” I asked.

  “He is only trying to locate them. Maybe they will be useful to us on the operation we plan.”

  I gave him full attention, unslinging my carbine and leaning it against the wall.

  “We get tired of the VC hitting us and running across the border to Cambodia where we can’t get them,” Kornie said. “This team of mine, we got only one month left before we go back to Fort Bragg. Garrison duty,” Kornie growled. “Two cowardly Vietnamese camp commanders in a row we get. Sometimes is a week between good VC contact.”

  “But this time I hear you have a good counterpart.”

  “This one is good,” Kornie conceded. “He maybe don’t like patrols himself, but if the Americans want to kill themselves and only a reasonable number of strikers, that’s our business by him. Come, follow me. I will show you what we are going to do.” He led me out of the team-house, down the mud road and on past several cement barracks with wood and thatch roofs. We stopped at one and a guard saluted. His dark skin and imprecise features marked the striker in tiger-stripe camouflage as a Cambodian. Kornie returned the salute and walked inside. There must have been about 50 men in the barracks. They were cleaning their rifles, making up packs, and apparently readying themselves to go out on a combat operation.

  “These Cambodes good boys,” Kornie boomed. “Loyal to the Americans who pay them and feed them. Not like the KKK.”

  The Cambodes evidently liked the captain, for Kornie lustily shouted some indistinguishable words and got back an enthusiastic response. “I ask them if they are ready to kill Communists anywhere, even in Cambodia. They are ready.” He gave them a cheerful wave and we left.

  “Let’s go to the radio room and see what we hear from Schmelzer.”

  Borst was at the radio, earphones on, scribbling on a sheet of paper in front of him. He looked up as Kornie came in.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Schmelzer is standing by on voice.”

  “Good!” Kornie exclaimed, taking the mike. “Handy, Handy,” he called. “This is Grant, Grant. Come in Handy.”

  “Grant, this is Handy,” came back over the receiver. “Made contact with bandits at BP 236581.” On the map above the radio Kornie located the position of his executive officer from the coordinates. It was eight miles north of Phan Chau, almost straddling the border.

  Schmelzer continued. “Our assets now having friendly talk with bandits. Believe you can go ahead with operation. That is all. Handy out.”

  “Grant out,” Kornie said putting down the mike. He turned to me. “Our plans are coming along well. Now if the Viet Cong give us tonight without attacking, we will buy ano
ther few days to finish the camp’s defenses. Then”—Kornie grinned—“they can throw a regiment at us and we kill them all.”

  Kornie led the way back to the operations room where Sergeant Bergholtz was waiting for him. As we walked in the sergeant said, “Falk just got another agent report. There are about 100 VC hiding in Chau Lu, resting and getting food. Less than half live there, the rest must be hard-core just come over from Cambodia.”

  “That is good, that is good,” Kornie said, nodding. “Now, I will explain everything. Here.” He pointed to the map. “You see the border running north and south? Our camp is three miles east from Cambodia. Four miles north of us is this nasty little village of Chau Lu right on the border near which we were ambushed this morning. Four more miles north of Chau Lu, still on the border, is where Schmelzer is right now, talking to the KKK.”

  “I’m with you so far,” I said.

  “Good. Now, in Cambodia, exactly opposite Chau Lu, ten miles in is a big VC camp. They got a hospital, barracks, all the comforts of a major installation. The attack on us will be launched from this big Communist camp. The VC will cross the border and build up in Chau Lu, like they do now. When they’re ready, they hit us. If we try to hit their buildup on our side of the border they only got to run a hundred meters and they’re back in Cambodia where we can’t kill them. Even if we go over after them they pull back to their big camp where we get zapped and cause big international incident.”

  Kornie watched me intently for a reaction. I began to get a vague idea of what he had in mind. “Keep talking, Steve. I’ve always wanted to go inside Cambodia.”

  The big Viking laughed hugely. “Tonight, my Cambodes, 100 of them, cross the border and take up blocking positions two miles inside Cambodia between Chau Lu and the big VC camp. There is a river parallel to the border in there. My Cambodes put their backs to the river and ambush the VC who are running from Chau Lu, which we attack just before sunrise tomorrow morning. At the river my boys can see and kill any VC from the main camp who try to cross it and get behind them.”