by Morris Ray
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Just ask any Army doctor, and he’ll be the first to affirm that Special Forces medics are the best trained in the world, receiving substantially more than that given to the average combat medic. SF medics are the only ones who get to treat actual gunshot wounds during training, and if they lose one of these “patients” they simply fail to graduate. The Army’s Physician’s Assistant Program, prevalent in all Army hospitals, came into existence as a result of the Special Forces medic training. Project Delta was fortunate to have some of the finest medics in the world assigned in support of their mission: Roland Meder, John Burdish, Bill Erickson, James Dallas Chapman, Howard Wells, Ed Foshee, Dennis McVey, Mike Sterns and Larry Dickinson, to name only a few. If a Recon patrol had the good fortune to have one of these skilled SF medics along on an operation they were extremely lucky. Not only because one had been assigned, but because these medics are soldiers first and medics second; expected to lead, fight, parachute and successfully accomplish all the tasks other SF soldiers do. Regardless of their placement, the others were all cross-trained in life-saving techniques.
An intriguing example of how far the men would go to be medically trained was emphasized by one Delta member. When SFC Andy Shepard cut his leg to the bone with an ax while chopping metal bindings from a pallet of supplies, bleeding profusely, he hurried to the detachment medic, SGT Taylor.
“Doc, I need for you to put some stitches in this, and give me a tetanus shot.”
“I’m not going to sew that up,” Taylor told him rather bluntly. “And I’m not going to give you a shot, either. You’re going to do it, because if I ever need your help while we’re in the hole, you’ll have to know how.”
Under Taylor’s close supervision, Shepard sewed up his own leg.
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Renowned for their language skills and cultural sensitivities as much as for their legendary military acumen, medics weren’t the only ones highly trained. The extensive skill sets needed for Project Delta personnel went far beyond the typical requirements for a particular military occupational specialty (MOS.) For example, its weapons NCOs are trained to operate any light or heavy weapon found in the world arsenal, to include field-stripping them in the dark, then repairing them. SF demo men have the capability to demolish a five-story building using items typically found in most hardware and grocery stores. SF radio operators can send and receive Morse Code at an astonishing speed, as well as operate or repair any radio they might encounter.
Project Delta’s Communication NCOs, or “Commo” men, were responsible for implementing communication innovations that changed the face of military field combat. It was said that, “These guys can rig communications from a strand of wire and a Coke bottle—and talk to the world.” While the comment may seem farfetched to some, Delta’s Commo men initiated several configuration modifications for the HC-162 radio set: a smaller, lighter, dry-cell battery; a power converter/transformer for ac or dc voltage; additional receptacles so the HC-162 could be attached to the new “burst” device; and changes to the type of antenna wire generally provided. Inventive SF Commo men had been improvising doublet antennas by using steel or deep-sea fishing line, which frequently shorted out due to lack of insulation. It’s common to hear tales of reverting to wire coat hangers, a clothes line, barbed wire, or even the use of a vehicle as an antenna. Still, their fabricated innovations were superior to what was available through supply channels, and their recommendations a direct result of lessons learned during actual combat operations.16 Skilled Commo men were always in high demand.
Most Project Delta commanders had a special radio operator accompany them when in the field. Early in his command, MAJ Charles Beckwith always took Don “Val” Valentine along. Valentine revolutionized the way Delta operatives communicated in the field. For example, on the ground, Recon men often had to make radio contact while operating within just a few yards of the enemy. Listening to the airborne radio relay was usually not a problem—it was the answering that always worried them. When close to the enemy, they couldn’t always answer, so they’d just “break squelch” by pressing the “push-to-talk-button,” to indicate they could hear but that it wasn’t safe to reply. The first time it happened to Valentine, he told the Recon man to hit his push-to-talk button three times for “yes” and twice for “no.” Then he posed direct questions answerable by a simple yes, no or “no response.”
Initially, he thought of questions as the scenario unfolded, but by the next day he had managed to devise a list of direct questions a radio
operator could use in a similar situation, to remain informed even when given map coordinates. Valentine’s procedure was integrated into unit Standard Operating Procedures (SOP), used frequently by Project Delta radio operators on radio relay flights. After Valentine rotated back to the United States, Beckwith’s Commo man became Terry “Rolex” Morrone.
Delta veterans recall one operation, when a Recon team had been out of radio contact with the FOB for much too long, and the radio relay man had called repeatedly, yet failed to make contact. Finally, when the team leader answered, he spoke much too softly to be heard over the aircraft engine noise and it seemed his Vietnamese teammates were chattering loudly behind him. The irritated airborne radioman growled, “Speak up! I can’t hear you through all your Vietnamese troops talking!”
Very slowly a faint voice came back. “T-h-e-y-a-r-e-n-o-t-m-y-t-r-o-o-p-s.” Yet another tale, quietly divulged by a Recon man, bears testimony to the harsh realities of war and the mental anguish that is obvious when speaking about the loss of comrades. One seasoned radio operator had served with Project Delta for a year and then transferred to MACVSOG. During his very first operation into Laos, his entire small team, one fellow American and three Vietnamese, were surrounded and captured. The NVA lieutenant immediately executed the SOG Vietnamese soldiers. While two of his men restrained the young radio operator, the NVA lieutenant slit his stomach, his intestines spilling to the ground. His heinous act incomplete, the lieutenant sprayed highly combustible fluid over the intestines and the man’s stomach cavity, and lit it with a flame-thrower. The NVA soldiers had bound his buddy’s arms, making him watch. The enemy officer admonished the surviving U.S. member to return, the Americans to never again come to Laos, or this is what would happen to them. The young SF communication soldier who died that day was married, with two small children. Many Special Forces men prayed they’d be the one to run into that NVA lieutenant. Rest assured, if any had, it was never confirmed, nor made a matter of public record.
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In 1964, CPT Larry O’Neil worked in Air Mobility at the 5th Special Forces Group (Abn) Headquarters, as part of supply operations (S4). His job entailed sending tons of equipment and supplies all over Vietnam, to SF detachments and projects. Aware the new Leaping Lena and fledgling Project Delta operations were classified CIA missions, he wanted special handling for those items marked to go there. His concern was he didn’t want to designate it in any way that would be obvious to VC agents, so he simply marked it with a small chalk triangle. The Greek symbol soon became Delta’s trademark.
The McGuire Rig allowed hovering rotary-blade aircraft to extract Recon teams from the densely forested areas in the highlands. Vietnam, 1966.
Often surprised by the type of U.S.-issued or foreign equipment that might arrive on site, innovative adaptations frequently had to be made to make it operate effectively with other Project equipment. That entrepreneurial spirit shines through in the following incident:
A call had come in from the 5th SFG’s Supply Officer (S-4) that they were in possession of some locked conex containers belonging to Project Delta. Because the S-4 staff had known Delta’s mission was classified, the 5th SFG men weren’t about to force the containers open. Instead, they demanded immediate removal from their holding area. Since keys couldn’t be located, the Delta logistics troops cut the locks with bolt-cutters. The cargo, numerous types of silenced weapons, included long-barreled,
.22-caliber automatic target pistols.17 This bonanza proved extremely valuable as bartering material, and if rumors are to be believed, some have been carried home in personal luggage. It was a fact that the Project never suffered from a shortage of U.S. or foreign-made weapons.
Besides the logistical cache ordered through the supply system, Project Delta often received items as forced issue. Items were sent for combat testing and required a rather lengthy report regarding their effectiveness. During this period, much activity was ongoing in research and development related to Project Delta, not only in the arena of tactics, but for unproven equipment. Some Project-tested equipment eventually became standard issue for the rest of the Army. For example, the Hughes HC 162 radio (eventually known as the PRC 72), the PRC 64 radio and the Claymore mine. Other innovations, such as “rocket ammunition” pistols and a vintage GPS using a converted C-47, all failed miserably.
During the development of Project Delta’s operational tactics, combat planners had difficulty finding suitable Landing Zones (LZ) for their rotary-blade aircraft to land and extract Recon teams, especially in the densely forested areas of the Central Highlands, where triple-canopy vegetation was the rule. Even this problem was no match for the creative juices applied by Project Delta’s inventive Non-commissioned Officer Corp. Sergeant Major Charles McGuire and other NCOs worked closely with VNAF helicopter crews to develop a sling harness that could be lowered to a team on the ground. They would be slipped into it and then hoisted above the treetops to safety. To complicate matters, they often had to complete this tricky maneuver under heavy enemy ground fire. The pilot had to first lift the loaded McGuire Rig straight up, clear the trees, apply full throttle and then whisk his live cargo away. As pilots were first learning new techniques on how best to hoist the loaded rigs, several team members sustained serious injuries. Frank Badolati was among them. He suffered broken ribs, a punctured lung and, after being dragged against a tree stump, had to be medically evacuated. Badolati had inadvertently locked his wrist into the slip-loop before the chopper had completely cleared the ground; this would later become a forbidden practice.
On that first experimental run, Jack Dawg Long had hooked up to the same chopper, but observing Badolati’s predicament, quickly managed to get loose. One Project Delta spectator remarked, “Dawg was so scared he actually outran the damned chopper until he could loosen his wrist from the lock-down loop. I’ve never seen anyone outrun a helicopter before!”
It was quite a memorable day when Bob Hope and his USO troupe were in Nha Trang performing, while SGM McGuire and his NCOs were nearby, testing the rig at the Project Delta compound. Hope stopped his act in the middle of a joke, speechlessly eyeing the helicopter speeding past at 500 feet, three men precariously dangling 100 feet below it. The unexpected event broke up the show, as he and the audience gazed in wonderment. The famous McGuire Rig had been christened.
Perfecting the original McGuire Rig would be accomplished through practical application in the field, over several improvement iterations. Initially, the rig was constructed of a nylon mountain-climbing rope, with two loops sewn into the end, nearest the ground. One large loop and another much smaller were affixed to the rope by strong nylon thread. In 1966, a Delta Recon Supervisor, SFC Norm Doney, helped redesign the McGuire Rig with an adjustable wrist loop. The concept was simple. The man being extracted would sit in the large loop and slip the smaller adjustable loop around his wrist, thus locking himself in place so he couldn’t fall out, even if hit by enemy gunfire. Being slowly lifted clear of obstacles, then rapidly flown away, the centrifugal force might still pull his arm out of its socket, but he wouldn’t fall out—and he’d still be alive! The other end of the rope was anchored securely to a sturdy 4” x 4” yoke, and then snap-linked into a set of rings in the floor of the extraction helicopter.
The pilot first had to hover above the treetops while up to three recon team members hooked themselves into the rig, then he had to slowly lift the chopper until the man (or men) were clear of any trees before he’d fly off with his load dangling high above the ground as enemy fire peppered the air. Once the helicopter found a safer location, it could land and take the men aboard. It probably beat dying—but not by much. The simple fact was, for those who truly believed they were ready to meet their maker, they might’ve opted to remain behind and fight to the death rather than climb into that evil contraption and be whisked away through thorns and tree branches, swinging suspended over 100 feet beneath a pilot who’s only thoughts at the moment were getting the hell out of that area as quickly as possible. All of it, while an adversary tried their level best to shoot them from the saddle. It was that scary. While each extraction helicopter was equipped with more than one McGuire Rig, most men hoped they’d never need them. SFC Norm Doney and others redesigned the rig and made modifications to it to improve its effectiveness and safety. The McGuire Rig was eventually replaced by the “Stabo Rig.”
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If Project Delta team members lived a Spartan existence while in the field, after only one short year, its garrison facilities were, by Vietnam standards, luxurious. Initially, when replacement teams began to arrive during autumn 1964, they were given the most undesirable location available, under the worst conditions imaginable. It was commonplace to wade in muck up to the knees, sleep in leaky tents, take cold showers and eat C-rations—when they were available. Yet, by the time Project Delta deactivated and left Nha Trang in 1970, their facilities, especially Delta’s club, called the Delta Hilton, were among the plushest digs in Vietnam. Using primarily “scrounged” and “borrowed” materiel, they built a modern camp and an enviable club that possessed a coveted Delta-symbol padded bar, rock garden, fountains, paintings and tasteful furnishings. The menu was one of the most palatable in theater: steak, baked potato, fresh salad and—always—cold beer.
However, Delta’s first attempt at establishing a unit club had not been quite as successful. The “Bamboo Club” had been simply a bamboo lean-to with wooden benches, a BBQ grill converted from a fifty-five-gallon metal drum and several garbage cans to cool the beer. As materials could be located and scrounged, the Navy Sea-Bees had been bribed with beer and booze to help build the new club, and a respectable facility eventually emerged. Erecting these clubs was eventful; as if Project Delta needed more adventure!
The original Delta Club had operated only forty days before the Inspector General (IG) shut it down at the request of the 5th Special Forces Group Commander—there were persistent rumors of rowdy behavior, raucous misconduct and, heaven forbid, fights! Of course, those were just rumors—except maybe for the fights. What began as a hangout to unwind between missions, with just a few bottles of booze, a scarred wooden table, a cooler of beer and a few rusty old metal chairs, actually made a profit; in fact, it took business away from the 5th Special Forces Group’s legitimate clubs. No one ever thought it would become a “real” club, because they knew a “real” club brought unwanted regulations, required a board of governors, published rules, etc. Early B-52 operatives blamed their “club” troubles on one of their own. Fancying himself as a news reporter, he’d “ratted out” his Delta brothers, causing them to lose their club. Suffice it to say, that individual didn’t last long. The word was, he left the Army and eventually found work at a liberal West Coast magazine. Like a shunned Biblical sinner, within Delta circles his name hasn’t been mentioned since—and it won’t be mentioned here.
Inside the Delta Club, 1965. (Photo courtesy of Len Boulas)
The good news was, in the relatively short time the Bamboo Club existed, its profits paid the civilian labor force and made enough for material and labor to build a better club. Plans were drawn up and it was constructed within Project Delta’s secure compound, using generated funds. A private club, it didn’t cost taxpayers one red cent, and unlike most other Army military clubs, turned a profit. It was common knowledge during that era, that many club managers had skimmed non-appropriated funds (e.g., club profits), then rotat
ed back to the States while leaving their facilities deeply in debt. It’s a fact that one of the Army’s top command sergeant majors stole millions from Southeast Asia NCO club funds and deposited them in a Swiss bank account using the name “Fishhead.” Dishonorably discharged, he was incarcerated at the Fort Leavenworth Federal Prison in Kansas.
After being burnt by one they trusted, this new Delta Club was classified secret; reporters were never again allowed inside. They had learned much from their first experience, and once the club was built, it operated strictly by the book by having elected club officers, keeping immaculate books, paying distributors on time and establishing bylaws. The Delta Club generally set the standard for others.
DELTA CLUB RULES
1. Uniform Regulation: Something on your feet and something on your ass—shower shoes and jockstraps suffice.
2. Guests: Any female is to be allowed entrance whether accompanied or not, but no female shall be allowed to exit without permission of a club member. Only Delta personnel may bring guests into the compound or club.
3. Associate Members are allowed from any branch of service.
4. No reporters or non-Special Forces Officers are allowed inside the club.
The Delta Club became famous within Special Forces circles and with some of the other units Delta worked with. It was the place to go for fun, good drinks and great food at reasonable prices. Everyone was welcome, with the exception of non-Special Forces officers and reporters. Few who visited could deny it was a class act.
