by Morris Ray
“God damn, I knew you’d come get me, Mo,” he said cheerfully.
Captain Moberg outranked Robinette, and under normal military protocol, should’ve taken command. But Delta Recon had its own rules. As in all operations, the One Zero might be junior in rank to other patrol members, but the one most experienced was always in charge, regardless of his rank—others followed his instructions. Robinette reminded Moberg that he was still in charge. Moberg shrugged. He was a chopper pilot—what did he know about ground combat operations? He seemed just as pleased to keep it that way, “You’re doing a fine job, Robbie. Keep right on trucking. Tell me what you want me to do.”
Robinette assigned positions and fields of fire along a trail above the downed helicopter for a hasty ambush. He reasoned that once the enemy realized a chopper had gone down, they’d come to investigate. Over the PRC-25, the Bruiser quickly advised them to stay put until he could identify another LZ and notify the 81st Rangers to get them out. Their water and ammo divided among them, Doc placed the M-60 in a position where he could cover the trail.
After recovering from the terrifying crash and some initial discussion, the jungle reverted to an eerie quiet; each lay silently, intently watching their assigned area. Moberg was the first to hear soft Vietnamese voices from below them on the hill. A man trotted toward the chopper, then paused about twenty yards away while staring down the hill. He came to a halt so quickly his squad began to stumble onto each other, bunching up. The small contingency of Americans had been anticipating the 81st Ranger reinforcements that Allen said were coming, and initially hoped it was them. Moberg had the best position to observe them, but the web harness and helmets seemed all wrong. These wore pith helmets—NVA headgear.
Moberg glanced at Robinette who was licking his lips and carefully taking aim with his CAR-15. As Moberg gazed over his rifle at the squad, the leader spun, his helmet star reflecting like a beacon. Eyeing the downed chopper, the leader pointed and began to scream an order when Moberg and Robinette’s automatic bursts cut him down. Every American seemed to cut loose at once.
Doc’s M-60 rattled off perfect three-round bursts as it plowed up the jungle. Nary a word was spoken by this seasoned bunch—the only clamor came from controlled bursts of fire, magazine changes and explosive concussions as they occasionally lobbed a grenade at an NVA position. It took only minutes to decimate the entire enemy unit. Robinette silently signaled them to pull back. Moberg helped Doc cart the heavy machinegun and extra ammo back up the hill, noting that during all the commotion, the recon guys had communicated only with hand signals, each man instinctively doing his part. They moved rapidly toward another ridgeline, just north of where the aircraft went down, and set up yet another defensive perimeter inside a clump of tall elephant grass. Remaining motionless, they detected enemy units moving up the other side, firing into the trees above them, trying to draw their fire. No one moved or responded. They knew the enemy was just trying to locate their position.
After a few more minutes, Robinette crawled to each man, whispering that the Rangers were inbound; everyone was to follow Graves as he took point and moved them farther north. As they pulled out, several Vietnamese shouted from the direction Graves had just led out. Firing erupted, and they again sought cover. Graves and the VNSF lieutenant were on point. Both fired, cutting the enemy patrol to pieces. Later, the Vietnamese lieutenant told Graves the enemy had been shouting for the Americans not to shoot, that they were out of ammunition. Whether or not a ruse, they’d never know; the team wondered...could they have taken prisoners? Astounded by the notion, Moberg concluded, “Isn’t that just like a bunch of Recon guys? Here we are, stranded, behind enemy lines, low on ammunition, and with only a slight chance of staying alive, and they’re contemplating taking prisoners!”
After the ruckus finally abated, the team moved rapidly, anxious to be out of the area. They slid down the far side of the hill, away from the NVA racing up from behind. Smitty, the door gunner, carried the heavy M-60 and was having trouble keeping up; Moberg took it, then handed him his CAR-15. Jay Graves, still on point, tirelessly led as they fought through the dense undergrowth for hours without pause. Finally, he held them up and they waited. Soon, he returned—he’d made contact with the Ranger reaction force. Words were never spoken or necessary as the Rangers set up a blocking force. The exhausted patrol passed silently through their line, pausing beside a small stream at the base of the mountain where they saw orange panels laid out. Within minutes, a Marine CH-46 helicopter came in; everyone immediately climbed aboard—except for Moberg. In a daze, exhausted, spent and unable to move, Moberg stood stoically as the tailgate began to close—they were leaving him behind. The chopper ascended then settled back; the tailgate again lowered. This time Robinette’s hand shot out. Grabbing Moberg by his harness, he jerked him in like a sack of potatoes.33
The chopper took a few rounds as it lifted off, and simultaneously everyone returned fire. Finally out of M-16 ammunition, Graves dropped it and began firing with his .45-caliber pistol. Sitting on the floor of the craft, too tired to move, Moberg stared in disbelief and shook his head. Recon guys just never knew when to quit!
After landing at Dong Ha to refuel and change aircraft, a 281st AHC Slick transported them to Hue Phu Bai. After bandaging Smith and Doc Simpson for their broken ribs, the medics spent the next two days removing thorns from their punctured bodies. Since Simpson never complained once, and no one knew his ribs were broken, they wondered how he ever endured the arduous trek through the mountains. Beyond that, they suffered no casualties other than bruised egos for losing the helicopter—and perhaps for failing to capture those prisoners.
31 Donald Taylor, “Remembering the 281st AHC,” www.projectdelta.net/remembering_the_281st.htm.
32 Robert Moberg, “Shot Down with Robbie,” www.projectdelta.net/shot_down.htm.
33 Ibid.
SIXTEEN
The Twilight Zone
THE VC RELIED HEAVILY ON BOOBY-TRAP DEVICES to slow troop progress and produce casualties; they’d dig a small hole in a trail or beside it, then fill it with sharpened bamboo stakes—often smeared with human excrement. If punctured by one of these doctored stakes, blood poisoning was imminent. Maurice “Brake” Brakeman recollects some experiences with the VC’s nasty homemade booby-traps.
After an acute bout of diarrhea, he missed his regular rotation for pulling recon, but upon recovering, he was sent out with a guy he remembers only as Lieutenant Sullivan. Brake really hated going out with Sullivan; he really wasn’t a bad guy, only big—and clumsy. Brakemen recalls, “He got hung up on every ‘wait-a-minute’ vine, and would stumble over any small rock within ten feet of the trail. He could’ve stood stock still and made a racket; not exactly cut out for recon...a hell-of-a-nice guy and probably would’ve made a fine neighbor.”
It was during one of Brakeman’s operations that a team member was lost due to a punji-trap. During a halt, LT Tommy Richardson stepped off the trail to defecate and committed a cardinal sin—he never looked behind him as he squatted. A feces-tipped punji punctured the back of his thigh; it became infected within minutes and eventually caused gangrene. He decided to tough it out because he didn’t want to report the incident to his One Zero, but the following day, the sergeant noticed him limping in obvious pain. Insisting on examining the young officer’s wound, he immediately called for extraction. The lieutenant had either been too proud, stubborn or tough to complain and admit he’d screwed up the mission. He didn’t want to be the cause of cutting the recon short, just because he “had a little sticker.” He was admitted to the hospital, and nearly lost his leg. The team never saw him again and that was their loss, for he’d been an old SF hand from Okinawa and potentially had the makings of a solid One Zero.
Captain Henry “Hugh” Shelton also had a run-in with one of those vicious little contraptions during a night raid with a company of Montagnards. As darkness approached, the company was fired on, the point man killed outright. All hell broke lo
ose as more firing engulfed them from positions on the top of a nearby ridgeline. As the Americans got the Montagnard tribesmen fanned out and moving toward the top of the hill, they encountered expedient early warning devices the VC had set out, and numerous punji traps and stakes, almost impossible to see in the failing light. Feeling a burning pain in his lower leg that jolted him to an abrupt halt, Shelton reached down and discovered a punji stake had entered the front and exited through the rear of his calf. He took out his K-Bar and under extreme pain cut the stake, both in front and back, freeing himself, and then continued upward in the assault. Later that night, they removed the remainder of the embedded punji, but Shelton refused to be evacuated until the mission was completed. The following morning, a medivac ship was called in and he was flown to a field hospital. If the punji stake had been “tipped” with human waste, we might well have lost the man who would become the future Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
* * * * * *
Herb Siugzda was born in Lithuania and survived the Nazis’ brutal occupation and subsequent WWII American bombing runs. Reminiscing about one positive memory from his childhood, he was mesmerized by a tall American paratrooper with big jump boots, helmet and rifle. He wanted to be just like him; an American soldier. Immigrating to America as a young boy, he joined the Army as soon as he reached an acceptable age. The men he met there became his family. In December 1966, SSG Siugzda was assigned to a Special Forces “A” detachment in Vietnam.
Adapting quickly to combat, he soon came to the attention of others, and after being in-country for only two months, received orders for Project Delta. When he asked about it, he was told only that his new job was “classified.” It seemed illogical to be so highly classified that it had to be kept a secret from a man who was going there, but he kept his mouth shut and went along. He heard persistent rumors that Project Delta was some kind of “suicide mission.” He wasn’t at all comfortable with becoming involved with something like that, but knowing he had very little say in the matter, he reported to Project Delta in early 1967. After years of searching, it turned out he finally found a place he wanted to call home, among men who would become closer than family.
On his first operation, Siugzda, SFC Walter “Doc” Simpson and four VNSF were among several recon teams being launched from the FOB at Hue-Phu Bai. As follow-on to Operation Pirous and Operation Samurai I, they flew out in a formation of four helicopters, each with a recon team aboard. After faking several landings to deceive the enemy of their true insertion point, they were inserted into the mountainous jungle range near A Shau Valley around dusk, 22 April 1967. Potential landing zones were scarce and the one selected had once grown corn, although since harvested. Because Siugzda was the FNG, he thought it “interesting” that the 281st AHC pilot would speed at treetop level for more than an hour and then suddenly drop from formation to hover six feet off the ground. The crew chief signaled for them to disembark.
As usual, Doc Simpson was the first to exit, followed by the four VNSF, with Siugzda bringing up the rear. Dropping into the tall vegetation six feet below, he felt a sharp pain in his left thumb; he observed a deep slice across the meaty part. Damn, he thought. Now, I’ve got to stay out here for five days with a sore thumb! Attempting to jog toward the tree line to join the others, he found himself anchored, unable to budge. A three-foot tall, sharp cornstalk had entered the left side of his groin and exited on the right, just below his lower abdomen.
In the rugged highlands, the VC knew there would be few LZs suitable for infiltrating recon teams. The wily VC often bobby-trapped potential sites by digging small holes filled with sharpened stakes, camouflaged for concealment—punji pits. In this particular incident, where a farmer had planted corn, the VC simply used a little ingenuity to shear the cornstalks at two to three feet with an angle that produced a razor sharp point. After vegetation and elephant grass reclaimed the field, the stalks were hidden. Those jumping from an elevated helicopter became impaled on the improvised “punji stakes.” Siugzda, on his first recon patrol, had fallen victim to this tactic. If the stake had been tipped with excrement, Siugzda would have died within the hour.
He saw Doc Simpson motioning impatiently for him to join the rest of the team. Recon men know insertion is the most critical time in any operation. It was apparent Doc was extremely concerned about the delay, aware that remaining for even a few minutes was dangerous. Siugzda tried to extract himself from the stake, but it held fast. He motioned to Doc that he couldn’t move—signaling he had a very real problem.
Again motioning, Simpson was growing agitated and broke protocol by whispering harshly, “Bullshit! Come on, Siugz! Move your ass.”
Emphatically, Siugzda signaled “no.” Repeatedly pointing toward his feet, he whispered back, “I can’t move, Doc.”
Simpson trotted back on the LZ, amazed and speechless upon realizing the nature of Siugzda’s situation. Drawing his K-bar knife, Doc knelt and hacked off the punji stake at its base. Helping his wounded comrade from the LZ, once safely inside the trees, he radioed back to the FOB, alerting them they had a seriously injured man needing immediate medical evacuation. Simpson spoke directly with Major Allen, the Delta Commander.
“We have to medivac Herb immediately. He took a punji stake through his groin.”
“Tell him to cut it off and continue the mission,” was Allen’s short reply.
“You don’t understand,” Simpson said. “This isn’t one of those little sticks—this thing is the size of a freaking baseball bat! He’s pinned to the goddamned ground!”
By that time, darkness had fallen, and MAJ Allen informed Simpson that their LZ would be impossible to find again in the dark. Allen told them Siugzda would have to remain overnight, but that he would send a medivac chopper at first light. With the protruding three-foot stake, Siugzda’s pain was growing more intense by the minute. Doc Simpson tried to remove it, but was unsuccessful—it simply wouldn’t budge.
Saplings slashed downward at different angles and punji stakes, sharpened at both ends then wedged into the gash, lined trails in well defined areas. Many were tipped with human waste causing blood poisoning. (Photo courtesy of Maurice Brakeman)
Unable to bear the pain any longer, and faced with a long night ahead, Siugzda finally whispered, “Got any morphine, Doc? I could use a little help right now.”
Simpson shot him up and tried to make him comfortable as the team settled into a hasty defensive position, hoping that the VC hadn’t seen them come in, just waiting until first light to attack.
The night passed without incident, and Allen was true to his word—the medivac arrived at dawn. As he climbed the rope ladder, he was extremely careful not to let the offending stake hang up. Joe Markham helped him inside the chopper, staring in amazement.
“Jesus, Herb! That’s not a punji stake! It’s a f_ _ _ing baseball bat!”
“I’m getting really tired of hearing that, Joe.”
Siugzda was evacuated to the 8th Army Field Hospital, and within twenty minutes was prepped for surgery. The doctors and nurses were all incredulous, but enthusiastically, even gleefully, snapping pictures. Siugzda fervently hoped he wouldn’t end up in a medical journal or one of those “how to” books the doctors kept in their offices. The attending physician informed him the stake had narrowly missed a major artery, and the artery’s proximity was directly against the stake. Attempts to remove the stake could rupture it, and Siugzda could bleed to death. After receiving a numbing injection, the doctor examined him closely, “I can’t just pull this thing out. It might sever that artery.”
Siugzda clinically observed the stake, trying to be helpful. “Why don’t you just cut it in half at the artery, and remove it that way,” he suggested helpfully.
“Oh, hey, that’s not a bad idea.”
“By the way, Doc. Be careful while you’re cutting down there, will you?” Siugzda requested. “I don’t want to wake up missing more than that corn stalk.”
A surgeon arrived and infor
med him that his “sacks” would probably have to be removed. After Siugzda calmly explained that he was a trained killer, and that any such action would have a grave impact on the doctor’s longevity, and that it would seriously lower the doctor’s odds of ever seeing the States, Siugzda decided to remain awake so as to ensure his “sacks” remained firmly affixed. At his insistence, he was given a spinal block instead of general anesthesia, and the medical staff went to work. The spinal injection, combined with the anesthetic, did the job; Siugzda peacefully drifted off halfway through the operation. After he came to, a pretty recovery nurse stood over his bed.
“How many nuts do I have?” he croaked hoarsely.
“Your nuts are beautiful, soldier...now go back to sleep.”
A number of Delta guys visited with him at the Army field hospital before he was transported to a hospital ship for another two months of medical care. When he was well enough to get around, and with the ship docking in the Philippines, he was finally given shore leave. According to Siugzda, “Here I was, without a uniform, my groin shaved as bald as an eagle, big, ugly stitches, and I...well, you know... wanted to see if everything still worked.”
