The Ether Zone: U.S. Army Special Forces Detachment B-52, Project Delta

by Morris Ray

  When any enemy contact was made, communication with the outside world became a matter of life and death. Often they had only minutes to call for fire support and evacuation. Communication was accomplished by using the HC-162 radio to check in once a day, or as the situation required, and by pre-planned over-flights by Air Force C-47 and FAC aircraft. A spectacular configuration of the C-47 was dubbed “Puff the Magic Dragon.”

  “Puff” consisted of either six 7.62mm or 20mm mini-guns that could fire 2,500 high explosive rounds per minute into a narrow killing zone, each approximately one foot apart, as though the barrage came from a single weapon. For example, a target the size of a football field could be blanketed in less than a minute, killing anything in its path, while demolishing masonry into pebble-sized rubble. Since every sixth round was a tracer, the mini didn’t seem to have a single muzzle flash. It appeared the plane had been attached to the ground by a wiggly line of flame, thus, Puff the Magic Dragon. After dark, the show was spectacular; day or night, it was devastating.

  Another deadly weapon was the B-52 Bomber. The high-attitude B-52 crews would cruise at 50,000 feet, arriving about daybreak at an eight-digit coordinate provided earlier by either recon or conventional units. With exacting precision they’d dump their pulverizing cargo and return to Guam just in time for cocktails. When these bombs hit, each carved a crater sufficient to envelope an average-sized house—and they dropped dozens on the target. The powerful explosion caused, sent an arc of light nearly blinding to those within a thousand meters. These strikes became known to the troops as “Arc Lights.”

  * * * * * *

  Delta Recon teams employed utmost stealth and secrecy, often operating within the inner most perimeters of the enemy’s defensive positions. Detection would’ve meant almost certain death; many teams had been chased for days after being inadvertently sighted. Tactics were needed to ensure deception, to fool the enemy. It was standard practice for helicopter pilots to use the “leap-frog” maneuver and go in at dusk, so if the teams were spotted and chased, it would soon be dark, easier to lose their pursuers. But if no enemy was in pursuit, the teams would distance themselves from the LZ to wait until dawn before moving.

  During Project Delta’s advanced in-country training, all teams, American and Vietnamese, had the potential to infiltrate either through a helicopter insertion via landings, rope ladders, rappelling; or by parachutes, including deliberate night tree jumps.

  Early planners continually tested new methods, such as parachute free falls from high altitude, use of smoke screens, or they would often remain after the main combat unit on routine operations had moved out. Some methods caused unintended consequences, as in this reported incident:

  It was a Sunday. Personnel had been discussing parachute insertion dispersion patterns (there was a distinct possibility that some beer had been consumed). They all agreed a big problem of a parachute insertion was that troops became so dispersed that it was difficult to locate everyone. This always caused the unit to remain too long, with the possibility of detection.

  The guys seemed to agree upon the notion that if they could be dropped from a helicopter or C-130 aircraft at minimum altitude, it would drastically limit their dispersion pattern and could benefit large Ranger unit operations. Len Boulas was designated to check with 5th Group’s Parachute Maintenance Officer concerning their plan. After they had the Warrant Officer estimate a parachute’s safe opening distance, tacking on an additional hundred feet for good measure, they decided upon 400 feet for the drop altitude (1250 feet is the typical altitude for conventional airborne units in a static-line training jump). Their next step was to convince a Vietnamese helicopter pilot to run the test.

  Captain Boulas, Captain Leslie P. Mason and four volunteers assembled a team to try it. The jumpers held back until the pilot had made two passes over 5th Group Headquarters, then aimed for the rice paddy beyond. On the third pass, they all bailed out. Boulas barely had time to check if his main chute had deployed before his feet hit. The entire team landed fast, within a fifty-meter circle.

  As they congratulated themselves, the Delta Commander and some 5th SF Group Headquarters staff drove up. Apparently, the 5th Group Commander, Major Art Strange, and some of the staff had been playing poker when the low-flying chopper rattled their flimsy headquarters, scattering men and cards. They quickly exited, just in time to see Boulas and his cronies bail out at 400 feet. “To say the least,” Boulas related, “we got a real serious ass-chewing.” The crusty old warrant officer from Parachute Maintenance needed to come to their rescue, to convince the Commander that their experiment, while unusual, was really not that dangerous for “experienced jumpers.” He reinforced that the 101st Airborne Division had used the same tactic during the WWII D-Day invasion in Normandy— he failed to mention how many had been injured.

  Had this been an isolated instance of Project Delta risk-takers simply pushing the envelope, it might’ve fallen by the wayside, overcome by other events. In reality, this was but one of many shenanigans that Project Delta personnel pulled to keep Major Strange in trouble with his boss. Early on, the troops had been described as among history’s “finest combat soldiers”—albeit a “commander’s nightmare” in garrison. Major Charles Beckwith had remarked about these soldiers, “These are the finest, goddamned combat troops in the world. Now if I could just get away with keeping them in a cage until time to send them back out, my job would be a hell of a lot easier.”

  Another incident involved Delta medic Larry Dickinson, Harold “Catfish” Dreblow and their friend, Don Hayakawa. After a lengthy recon operation in the Central Highlands, the trio lingered in a Nha Trang restaurant late one evening, catching up on good food and some Ba-Me-Ba Beer (Beer 33). Since Beer 33 was viewed mostly as formalde-hyde, it didn’t take much to change human behavior, and the trio grew drunker by the minute. Upon leaving, the three inebriated warriors discovered none had any money.

  “Don’t worry,” Dickinson slurred. “I’ve got a plan.”

  Dickinson always had a plan and most didn’t work very well. Leaving the others behind at the table, he went outside, pulled his pistol and fired three times into the air, then stuck his head back in the door, shouting, “VC! VC!”

  Catfish leaped to his feet. “Everybody out! Everybody out! We’re under attack!” He bolted for the door.

  Don Hayakawa, an American Recon NCO of Japanese-American decent, would’ve liked to have gone, but the simple truth was that he was just too drunk to move. So like all good Recon men, he also had a plan; he calmly continued to sip his beer until the MPs arrived. In his tiger-striped fatigues, without insignia or rank, he blended in perfectly with the other Asians in the bar. After the MPs had questioned him about the two Americans who’d skipped out without paying, they’d attempted to get Don to pay. His response, “Me don’t know nuttin. Me just interpreter. Ask GI, dey say dey pay.”18

  He got away with it.

  Ex-radioman Don Valentine remembers this about Hayakawa: “Don was quite smart. When ready to retire from 10th Special Forces Group, he persuaded the company SGM into allowing him to attend school while still on active duty, to acquire a civilian trade. The deal made, he was covered administratively by the SGM while training as a ‘cable-splicer’ for the local telephone company. He’d agreed to work for them without pay, without any expectation of a job upon his completion. Turn down a deal like that? They agreed, he graduated with flying colors, and of course, they hired him on the spot. As a Special Forces Communications specialist, why wouldn’t he graduate with flying colors?” Valentine figured this ploy had been at least as good as Hayakawa’s interpreter scam in Nha Trang.

  * * * * * *

  Before Delta completed their highly coveted club at Nha Trang, they either had to party at the nearby 5th Special Forces’ Playboy Club, under constant observation by the Group staff, or anywhere they could, which generally meant an unused area, beyond a ditch where concrete picnic tables were protected from the elements by a parachut
e canopy. No one seemed to notice its shortcomings. They held a party there after a particularly difficult Bien Hoa operation in which they had lost some men. While no one seems to recall the food, they do remember their libations—two gallons of 180 proof medical alcohol, blended with Hawaiian Fruit Punch and fresh fruit. Larry Dickinson had prepared the food and punch, and it was generally accepted that when Larry prepared anything, it was better not to inquire too deeply about his ingredients.

  Two Air Force buddies, with whom they usually traded pistols and captured crossbows, joined them for beer and steaks. The Delta group frequently invited others in a position to help in re-supply endeavors, particularly from the Air Force, since they had easy access to the daily planes from the Philippines and the United States. As vaguely as anyone remembers, their names were Simpson and Tufin. The inebriated Delta guys decided to “adopt” these two new Air Force buddies, and began coaching them on “jump training,” making parachute landing falls (PLF) from the concrete tables. After finishing off the punch, they retired to the Playboy Club, continuing to perform the PLFs from the barstools and bar, to the chagrin of the 5th Group staff. Whether the culprit or not, SFC Ayers gets the credit for the idea to include them in an actual parachute jump, an initiation of sorts for their new buddies. In retrospect, the participants admit, “What were we thinking?”

  When the club closed at midnight, the remaining partygoers retired to the Bamboo Bar in downtown Nha Trang, where they continued the “training” until nearly daybreak. Then at dawn, they escorted their Air Force comrades back to camp to awaken Cowboy, the only Vietnamese helicopter pilot halfway crazy enough to fly for their parachute drop.

  Valentine, appointed as Drop Zone Safety Officer (DZSO), was too drunk to drive and had to be driven to the DZ, a small rice paddy adjacent to the main gate of 5th Group Headquarters. Valentine still doesn’t remember how he ever notified the jumpers it was safe to jump (he felt they must have had a radio on the ground), but they did jump.

  A Delta guy exited first followed by an “Air Force dude,” alternating with another Delta man, then an AF man, then the last one, a Delta guy. Their explanation for this jump order was that the first Delta man would demonstrate how to exit the aircraft, while those following would ensure both AF guys jumped. Valentine was too drunk to remain upright and observe, so he reclined, watching the jumpers as they exited the aircraft. Others recall him tightly clutching his .45-caliber pistol, believing he had to secure the DZ in the event the VC attacked during the jump. His companions felt he made an excellent choice of weapon, because its effective range generally matched how far he could see.

  All four jumpers exited the chopper, their chutes opening successfully. One jumper flailed his arms and legs all the way to the ground; he hit so hard that dust billowed from the hard-packed clay. Valentine, alarmed that he’d probably broken every bone in his body, rushed over to him. Luckily, he was the nearest jumper because Valentine could barely stagger toward his moaning, motionless body. It was SGT Simpson, one of the Air Force NCO daredevils, covered with dust, his eyes tightly clinched.

  “Just what the hell were you doing?” Valentine screamed.

  Simpson peeked up at him, squeezing out a small tear. “Val, I did just like you taught me,” he mumbled. “I jumped and counted to four—pretty fast—but then I suddenly thought, what in the hell am I doing here, and I tried to climb back inside that damned helicopter.”

  The poor guy was as sober as a judge and nearly as white as a sheet by then, so Val lay off chewing his ass too severely. SGT Simpson quietly collected his dignity, brushed off some dirt and departed, never again to attend another Delta party. Air Force SGT Tufin, on the other hand, enjoyed his experience. He attended every Delta gathering thereafter; he’d been converted. Most figured old Tufin was a little touched in the head anyway and would fit right in, so they took a liking to him and he became one of their Air Force boys. They even pinned jump wings on his chest that fateful morning on the DZ.

  The Air Force often reciprocated, inviting Delta guys to attend some of their parties. More lavish than Delta’s, they seemed to be not nearly as fun, so the Delta gang often decided to ratchet them up. It was during a “bring your own booze” dinner party at an Air Force sergeant’s pad that things really got lively. The sergeant lived off base in Nha Trang with a pretty Vietnamese girl. Valentine and his companion stopped at the Class Six Store for booze, and against sound advice, Larry chose Irish whiskey.

  “Larry,” Valentine reminded him with his best fatherly advice, “The damn Scots and Irish have been fighting among themselves for centuries, and I think it’s because they drink their own whiskey.”

  Larry laughed, and bought the whiskey anyway.

  Since their host’s girlfriend was very pretty, the more Larry drank of that damned Irish whiskey, the more desirable she became. Despite Valentine’s discouragement, Larry remarked within earshot of their host that he had to have her.

  Their host became incensed. “I think you’d better leave, now!”

  It was an unlikely match; the host towered over 6’ tall and weighed in at 200 pounds, while Larry stood all of 5’8” and 150 pounds soaking wet. Valentine had seen Larry become involved in incidents of this kind before, and knew no good was going to come from it.

  “Larry, you best leave this man alone. You’re drunk and out of order. You’re also out of your weight class. Let’s go home.”

  “Hell, no,” Larry replied, wobbly climbing to his feet. “I’m gonna whip his ass, then I’m gonna take his girlfriend home with me. Haven’t ya noticed? She’s hot for me.”

  “Larry, you’re making an ass of yourself, and believe me, this is a huge mistake. Let’s just drop it and go home.”

  Larry stubbornly ignored this sound advice and proceeded to assume his best karate stance (under the circumstances). The large host incredulously absorbed the scene—he couldn’t believe it.

  “Are you ready, big boy?” Larry asked drunkenly.

  “Yep.”

  Larry attacked first with lightening speed; no one expected it. His fist caught the big guy in the chest, knocked him off his feet and onto his butt. Yet, all he’d accomplished was to piss off his host even more. No sooner had his butt hit the floor than the big guy sprang back, knocked him down then sat on his chest, all the while savagely pounding at his face.

  After a few good licks Valentine tapped their host on the shoulder. When he paused, he leaned forward and said, “Hold off for a second there, Bro. Let me see if he’s come to his senses yet. Larry, I told you not to drink that damn Irish whiskey. Have you had enough for one night?”

  “Yes, Val. I believe I have,” Larry answered politely.

  While Larry staggered to his feet and brushed off his clothing, Valentine shook hands, thanked their host and his girlfriend for their kindness, then guiding his battered friend by the arm, marched him out. He left the remainder of Larry’s Irish whiskey with their host. “If I were you,” Val said, “I’d pour the rest of that shit out.”

  Larry was in such bad shape that Val decided he’d first take him to the MASH unit for the doctors to patch up before going home. Val recalls that when the medical personnel worked on him, Larry, a trained SF medic, gave them his diagnosis and sage advice on exactly how to treat him, none of it appreciated by the medical staff. Larry eventually transferred to the Special Forces camp at A Shau, a Vietnam hotspot. Although the camp was overrun in 1966, Larry survived and returned to live in New Jersey.

  18 Donald Valentine’s website; http//www.don-valentine.com

  FIVE

  Teamwork and “Jointness”

  B-52 PROJECT DELTA MAINTAINED MINIMAL LOSSES throughout the war as long as they operated by their own rules; Recon members decided who would be on Recon teams. Nominations could only be made by recommendation of a current Recon member, one who could flatly state, “I personally know him and would trust him with my life.” They stipulated that teams would only be comprised of the most experienced Special Forces
NCOs. Officers might be allowed, in exceptional circumstances. Since most NCOs had spent years in Special Forces units, and were well-trained in all Special Ops-type missions, they were apprehensive about younger, inexperienced officers placed in charge, without the high level of skills needed to pull off the day-to-day missions. Some officers served with distinction on Recon teams. Among these: 1LT Guy H. Holland, CPT Billy J. Turner, 2LT Jerry D. Estenson, 2LT Tommy L. Richardson, 1LT Douglas E. Coulter, 1LT John M. Sullivan, 2LT Michael K. Carney and CPT Henry H. “Hugh” Shelton.

  Jerry Estenson’s autobiography places the decision to use young officers into perspective.19 He contends that when the “powers-to-be” first suggested the idea that Project Delta Recon teams would benefit from leadership provided by Special Forces lieutenants, even some young officers viewed the decision as flawed. Still, the theory would be field-tested to determine if it would hold up under combat conditions.

  Estenson researched who had been responsible for the decision to use officers, tracing it to General Jack Singlaub who had been receiving pressure from the conventional Army hierarchy to make it happen. This meddling by conventional-mindset officers continued to chafe the Special Ops community and made their job much more difficult.