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

by Morris Ray

  To a man, Simpson was highly respected, if not necessarily liked. He was given the responsibility-laden job of Recon Supervisor and although only a sergeant first class, his word was never disputed nor overridden—by officer or enlisted. He became the confidant of commanders, advisor to staff officers and mentor to the NCOs and young officers. All followed his recommendations without question. The consensus was unanimous: no better man could be in charge of the Recon Section— or your life.

  After the An Loa Valley operation, when numbers in the Recon Section fell to only four teams, due to casualties and attrition, Doc Simpson took his turn in the hole as a team member. Delta had less than a half-dozen “fieldable” recon teams during this time, yet higher command requirements for viable intelligence dramatically increased. Frequently, exhausted teams would be picked up from one area, only to be briefed on a new mission while still on the helicopter, provided fresh rations, water and ammo, and then reinserted.

  Bobby Pruett served three tours in Vietnam. Among his awards for service and valor are the Silver Star and three Bronze Stars. It was during his second tour that he met Doc Simpson, whom he credits with saving his life many times over. Pruett, having served with Project Delta’s BDA Company (Nungs), the 81st Airborne Ranger Battalion and as a Recon Team Leader, said, “Between Doc Simpson’s wisdom and Joe Alderman’s ‘tricks of the trade,’ well, I definitely owe them my life.” Pruett served with both Project Delta and SOG, retiring as a command sergeant major.

  From October 1967 to October 1968, Al Greenup served as a recon team leader under SFC Simpson’s tutelage. Shortly after assignment, Greenup and two other FNGs were summoned to meet with Doc Simpson; Simpson held the men’s longevity in his hands. If he didn’t want to keep them, they were gone. No one would override his decision. The FNGs had just completed two of their first “wet” operations during their “probationary” status. Greenup recalled the meeting did not go especially well for them. Never one to mince words, Doc went straight for the jugular about how pathetically they’d screwed up on their recent “piss-poor” recon mission and proclaimed he’d given them both an “unsatisfactory” performance report. He chastised them for everything: bad eye-sight, poor self-discipline and being as noisy as a “herd of water buffalo” in the brush. Downtrodden after being severely critiqued by the Master, they left the meeting with heavy hearts; Greenup more determined than ever to demonstrate he had what it took to become Recon with Project Delta. However, he noticed the other NCO had been sent to collect his belongings. Without fanfare, he quietly departed; his departure hardly caused a ripple.

  Years later, Greenup contemplated that incident and what occurred that day, and finally it all became clear. When first assigned, he’d been reminded it was strictly a volunteer outfit; he could quit at any time without repercussion. Then he learned that everyone, not just the FNGs, were being continually evaluated, even the veterans, and they might be involuntarily removed if diminished skills or attitude warranted. While some realized up-front they weren’t cut out for this kind of work, others never would figure it out, or were determined to stay and get it right. Delta’s missions called for tough decisions to be made by tough men—and Doc Simpson was a tough man. His decisions affected not only these men, but the lives of his other recon men; put a marginal man in the field, and he might well get the whole team wiped out. When the other FNG was let go, Greenup was impressed by how Doc Simpson went about it—quietly, without excessive embarrassment to the individual. In the process, he demonstrated removal was never an indictment of one’s courage, values or personal standards. While Delta’s mission simply wasn’t for everyone, it was important to complete an involuntary release without personal humiliation.

  One of the rare photos of SFC Walter “Doc” Simpson. 1966. (Photo courtesy of Bill “Pappy” Gleason)

  Greenup said, “Doc Simpson was a tough man who made tough calls, but he did it intelligently, and always left a man with his dignity.”30

  If the term “Mister Recon” could ever be applied to any one man in Project Delta, it would undoubtedly be Walter “Doc” Simpson. By all accounts, he was a man’s man, a strict task master, mentor, warrior and patriot. He was the kind of soldier that one did not simply like or dislike—but all respected. Many Delta Recon men will say they owe their lives to this man called “Doc,” either directly, as a result of his actions, or indirectly, through his mentorship and strict training. Doc Simpson retired in 1978 then piloted a Missouri Riverboat. He eventually moved back to his home in Tennessee, where in 1981, while mowing his mother-in-law’s lawn, he suffered a heart attack and died. Doc will always be remembered by his Delta Recon brothers as a master of the craft.

  * * * * * *

  As an NCO, Greenup was a recon operator for a year. Upon completing several years with Special Forces, the majority of them in Special Ops, he left the service and returned to college. After graduating, he joined the Air Force and became a pilot, flying Special Operations aircraft. He retired with the rank of Air Force Colonel. His intelligence and determination attests to the high caliber of Delta’s NCOs.

  30 Jerry D. Estenson, PDA, Professor, College of BA, California State U., Sacramento. “Perceptions of Critical Leadership Attributes Provided by Three Generations of Military Special Operations Personnel,” 49.

  FIFTEEN

  A Shau: Valley of Death

  AFTER LEAPING LENA’S 1964 DEBACLE OF USING only Vietnamese-cadre on recon teams, Project Delta combat operations started out small, both in terms of personnel involved and in duration. Activity quickly expanded as Delta’s capabilities and combat expertise evolved, and with higher command’s increasing demands for more intelligence. By 1967, Delta was launching full-blown combat operations requiring as many as thirty-six C-130 troop transport aircraft to move the unit for an operation, relying on the 81st Airborne Ranger Battalion as its quick reaction/reinforcement force. However, rotary-wing aircraft support was still difficult to obtain; teams frequently stared at the ominous black sky, waiting anxiously for the drone of a rescue chopper to whisk them to safety, or simply back to Nha Trang for rest and medical treatment.

  Recon was Project Delta’s sole purpose, but without helicopters, it couldn’t have survived. These odd contraptions performed an important role in Project Delta operations; they were essential for insertions, extractions, command and control, close-fire support and medical evacuations. Early on, this support had been provided by VNAF elements using CH-34 helicopters, L-19 fixed-wing observation aircraft and C-47 troop carriers for parachute operations and re-supply drops.

  Hughes “Slick” helicopter with recon team. The bundles beneath the doors are rolled 30-foot rope ladders. While the rope facilitated retrieving the men, the exterior lines were aircraft cable; the rungs ribbed, aluminum-alloy pipe. (Photo courtesy of Maurice Brakeman)

  After 1966, air support was primarily furnished by U.S. assets, but since there was never enough to go around no matter whom provided it, augmentation was always provided by the Marines, VNAF or other U.S. divisions.

  Delta veterans are prolific in their recollections about helicopter support, both good and bad. Almost to a man, they have fond memories of the unit that had served them the longest and best—the 281st AHC pilots and crews. The men knew if they called on the 281st for extraction, the crews would recover them or die trying. This sense of confidence about the 281st wasn’t felt for all other helicopter units that supported Project Delta.

  Sergeant Major (Ret.) Donald Taylor recalls the day Edgar Morales was stuck on the ground near Quan Loi. Sergeant First Class Jerry Nelson had been flying recovery with a chopper crew from a different helicopter support platoon. The tall vegetation at the extraction site made landing the aircraft impossible, so Nelson rolled out a rope ladder. Most of the team reached the skid and slipped safely inside the chopper without incident, but Morales was the last man up. As he continued his climb, shots rang out—they’d been spotted. Without warning, the young pilot pulled-pitch and hauled ass
while Morales clung precariously halfway up. To make matters worse, Morales hadn’t had time to snap his rucksack into the bottom rung, and was trying to climb with the heavy weight still on his back. The load was about to drag him backward; all he could do was hang on for dear life. To release his grip and attempt to drop his rucksack would have meant a tumble to the ground and a quick death. It was clear Morales didn’t have the strength to hold out until the chopper reached a suitable LZ, yet he couldn’t let go to snap in. He just held on and prayed for a miracle.

  Recon team practicing rope ladder extractions, Nha Trang. (Photo courtesy of Len Boulas)

  Nelson immediately understood Morales’s plight, and told the pilot to slow down. When the pilot ignored him, Nelson slid his CAR-15 under the pilot’s helmet and placed the muzzle behind his left ear. Softly, he requested the pilot to please reconsider. Taylor remarked, “Jerry was never one to mince words.”31 The pilot immediately slowed to sixty knots. Taylor continued, “Jerry slid over the open ledge and climbed toward Morales as though performing a circus trapeze act, while the ladder flapped in the wind.”

  Flipping to Morales’s opposite side, Nelson safely snapped the two of them to the dangling rope ladder. Morales’s prayers were answered.

  * * * * * *

  Many believe if Project Delta had made the call, their Vietnamese air assets, the 219th Special Operations Squadron (King Bees), would never have been given up. Once trained for Delta-type operations, they were as talented as the best pilots. Furthermore, the VN aircrews operated at the Delta Commander’s direction; he not only paid their salaries but provided food and lodging.

  Some King Bee crewmembers later transitioned to the United States and have become U.S. citizens; many attend the annual Special Operations Association Reunion (SOAR) held in Las Vegas, Nevada.

  * * * * * *

  Once the King Bees were pulled off to support SOG full-time, Delta initially was supported by helicopter elements from the 145th Airlift Platoon (which consolidated with the 6th Aviation Platoon, January 1966) and thereafter designated as the 2nd Platoon, 171st Aviation Company (AC). The 2/171st remained under the control of the Commander, 5th Special Forces Group, with whom Delta had to compete for support. In July 1966, and only after the 281st AHC assumed the assets of the 171st, it was attached exclusively to Project Delta for their operations.

  Still, since they were handy and remained in the 5th Group compound, the attachment didn’t preclude them from being pulled periodically for other 5th Group requirements. That status continued until completion of Operation Yellow Ribbon, December 1969. During that time, Delta conducted thirty-nine combat operations while using the helicopter assets of twenty-three different U.S. Army and Marine aviation units, only a few with any Project Delta experience. With outstanding results, the 281st AHC provided primary aviation support for twenty-four of these thirty-nine operations. Between the time span of Operation Yellow Ribbon and when Delta was deactivated in 1970, helicopter support was provided primarily by the units Delta supported with their Recon and Ranger assets. One thing was certain, helicopters were always in short supply—they kept getting shot down.

  Captain Robert “Mo” Moberg (call-sign Bandit 21) was at the controls, with CWO Johnson as co-pilot, the day their Slick went down in A Shau Valley. The crew chief, Smith, a young door gunner, Corney, and Doc Simpson were also aboard. There were no suitable LZs, so Simpson went along as Recovery NCO; he’d operate the hoist for the jungle penetrator they would use to rescue the recon team.

  Earlier, the FAC spotted the exhausted team through a small jungle clearing as they hunkered down on the side of a heavily forested hill. A Shau Valley had very few suitable LZs, and since the enemy was always aware of them, the penetrators were the primary means for extracting teams. Another chopper had already pulled out three members of the stranded team using one, having retrieved one American and two Vietnamese before ground fire drove them off. Forced to hover during the extraction, the helicopter had taken some serious fire and was hit numerous times. Fearing the helicopter might be lost, MAJ Chuck “Bruiser” Allen called off the operation before the remainder of the team could be hoisted out. Sergeant First Class Robinette (Team Leader), SSG Jay Graves (One One) and one of the Vietnamese recon men stayed behind.

  Using the radio, Allen sharply chastised Robinette. “Get your shit in order and find a safe LZ!” he barked.

  “I’ve got my shit in order,” Robinette replied calmly. “Now I’m looking for that Slick you promised would get us out of here.”

  Basically, three types of Hughes helicopters were used for Project Delta operations. Gunships were all heavily armed, with two mini-guns and rocket pods for protecting other aircraft and troops being infiltrated or extracted from an LZ. Mini-guns, similar to Gatling guns, use multiple rotating barrels to spew their awesome firepower. The C&C ship always carried the operation’s command and control element, generally the Delta Commander or one of his primary staff. During Chuck Allen’s leadership, he was always on board. The Slick referred to by Robinette was without heavy armament (firepower), but had an M-60 machinegun in both side doors. These were specifically used for infiltrations and extractions either by landing, rappelling, rope ladders, McGuire Rigs or by using jungle penetrators. Generally, Slicks were always manned with a pilot, co-pilot, crew chief and either one or two door-gunners for the door-mounted 7.62 light machineguns. The Hughes (Huey) could carry a squad of combat-equipped soldiers, making it perfect for the type of operations Project Delta ran.

  Mo knew Bruiser’s C&C ship was nearby because he heard Allen and Robinette’s verbal exchange over his headset.

  The recon team, led by SFC Orville “Robbie” Robinette, had been chased for more than two days by a large NVA unit due to the scarcity of suitable LZs for pickup. In the A Shau Valley, the “Cong” owned the place. The team was near exhaustion. They already called several times the FAC spotted them. With only three of them left on the ground, Moberg worried they wouldn’t be able to hold out for long. He requested the C&C pilot to direct him toward the team’s location, and as he hovered, his skids skimmed the tree tops. It was a gutsy maneuver for any pilot, but Moberg knew it might be the only chance. Unable to judge distance or terrain, Moberg blindly followed the C&C’s directions, expecting to feel the impact of tree limbs or rounds at any moment.

  “Right three degrees...left five degrees...hold heading....”

  He glanced over the nose and saw Jay Graves standing. Moberg fought to steady the helicopter as Doc Simpson operated the hoist; the agonizingly slow jungle penetrator dropped through the trees. After he’d played out more than 200 feet of cable, he yelled in frustration, “It won’t reach!”

  Gritting his teeth, Moberg settled his chopper down lower until cracking noises signified his rotor blades were clipping the treetops. The door gunner startled them all by opening up with his M-60; they were receiving fire from his side of the aircraft. Using his headset, Doc informed Moberg they had Jay Graves on the hoist, but Moberg couldn’t move the craft for fear of dragging him through the trees. The aircraft heaved as large caliber rounds hit; the bottom wind-screen all but disappeared and the cockpit filled with blue acrid smoke. When a B40 rocket slammed into the crippled craft, the concussion knocked Moberg’s right foot off the pedal. Fighting to keep his ship upright, the helicopter began drifting to the left; he struggled to correct it. Glancing quickly at CWO Johnson, his hands clutching the cyclic in a death-grip, Moberg knew he had to get his co-pilot off the controls.

  “I’ve got it!” Moberg cried out. Startled, Johnson let go.

  The aircraft kept drifting to the left, and Moberg realized he had no cyclic or pedals to control it. He made a swift decision to ditch it in the trees rather than into the valley 500 feet below.32 Brush and tree limbs splintered and crumbled crazily around it. Bracing themselves, it took a nose dive, finally coming to a stop upside down in the tree limbs. It had miraculously stopped its descent only six feet from the jungle floor. Moberg fought to ge
t his door open, screaming, “Where the hell is my gun? Who’s seen my gun?”

  Doc calmly poked him in the ribs with his own M-16. “Here...take mine...and get the hell out of here before this thing blows up.”

  Doc and Smith had been thrown clear when they hit, both sustaining broken ribs. They quickly went back, and then scrambled toward the exit just in case the aircraft’s fuel tanks lit up. Once outside the smoldering aircraft and accounted for, Doc and Moberg climbed back in again, this time to cut off the whining converters, and to retrieve the M-60 machinegun and some ammunition. Clueless as to how long they might be stranded, they knew it was going to get rough, and they’d need all the extra firepower they could muster. Doc reemerged with the M-60 and first aid/survival kit. The pilot managed to retrieve his CAR-15 and gave Doc’s rifle back to him. As they stumbled up the hill toward the recon team, Jay Graves walked to Moberg and planted a big wet kiss on the top of his head.