by Morris Ray
Between sporadic sniper rounds and the hum of flying shrapnel, Cole bandaged his wound. As the attacks continued, he lay helpless, unable to do anything, but it seemed the tempo was picking up. Dusk was nearly upon them. The small force knew they had to survive the night because evacuation was out of the question until morning.
Cole finished his task, propped Siugzda up, and tried to make his breathing as comfortable as possible. They all knew it would be a painfully long time before any rescue attempt. It didn’t help much that the enemy continued to attack all night—not in force, but just enough to keep them awake and on edge. By daybreak, their assaults seemed to have intensified; a steady stream of automatic fire zipped by, barely a foot or two over their prone bodies. Rising only a few inches would mean certain death. Siugzda’s bladder was full; he struggled painfully onto his side to relieve himself.
The FNG guy, a staff sergeant whose name has been lost, called out, “I’ve really got the GIs, bad. I have to take a crap.”
It took about a minute of serious contemplation before Siugzda yelled back, “Well good luck. All I can tell you is just stick ‘er out and cut loose. Don’t get your ass shot off.”
The Ranger company sustained a casualty rate of nearly thirty percent since the first round had been fired—still no choppers. Siugzda sat upright, partially leaning against a tree to help him breathe, watching as others fired to keep the enemy in check.
Suddenly, as if in slow motion, he watched as a hand grenade sailed over his head and landed a short distance from his feet. In one frozen instant, he knew he was dead. Without hesitation, the Ranger company commander, a young Vietnamese captain, fell on it, smothering the blast with his body. Practically blown apart, he was killed instantly, giving his life for those around him. Except for LT Wentz’s non-lethal head wound, all others in close proximity emerged unscathed.
“Medic! Medic!” Wentz shouted, holding his bloody head. “I’m hit!”
A head wound, no matter how minor, tends to bleed profusely; often the scare is magnified by daunting images of its seriousness. Although Wentz’s wound was non-threatening, it still bled copiously, soaking his uniform. Cole was at his side in a second, peering at the superficial wound.
“I’m hit!” the lieutenant cried again.
Cole was not impressed. He moved back toward his firing position. “So? Put a bandage on it, Lieutenant.”
“Dammit, I’m hit in the head!”
“So, put a large bandage on it and keep firing.”
A sudden roar drowned out his last words. Cole hit the ground, shouting, “Gunships!”
The Rangers all hugged the ground as the choppers passed overhead, their mini-guns spitting deadly tracers to within five feet of their perimeter. Siugzda felt the dirt splatter from the narrowly missing mini-gun rounds. Two Rangers were slightly wounded by the friendly fire, yet no one complained. It felt good to know they were not alone. From the air, it’s hard for the pilots to determine friendly forces from enemy forces, especially when hindered by the triple-layer jungle canopy and dense bamboo, and the fact that the smoke they’d thrown to identify them had drifted. Siugzda began to wonder who’d get him first, the good guys or the bad guys.
Fred Walz was at the FOB when word came that the operation was in trouble, and that his friend and roommate, Herb Siugzda, had been “wounded again”—his third. Walz volunteered to go in with the reaction force; a company of sixty Vietnamese Rangers and four American advisors. As they approached the besieged unit, the pilot could tell it would be a tight squeeze to get all the choppers onto the small and extremely rugged LZ. Walz, seated in the open doorway, leaped out as soon as he could. Moving swiftly, he was only fifteen feet away when the chopper crashed. His American advisor, Paul Shepard, and most of the Vietnamese Rangers made it out. The crew chief was pinned under the wreckage; the pilot and co-pilot’s doors both crushed too badly to open, the motor continued to run.
Walz yelled at Paul, “Hold up! We’ve got to get them out. It’s gonna blow any minute!”
Fighting against time, they struggled with the twisted wreckage, finally retrieved the crew and moved them to a small hill nearby, then set up a hasty defensive perimeter. As soon as security was established, Walz returned to the chopper to retrieve the radio box and machinegun. He knew he had to cut the engine; the whole thing would explode when the fuel ignited. His problem: he hadn’t a clue as to how to shut it down. He flipped every switch in hopes that he’d find the right one; otherwise, the damned thing would blow and take him with it.
“Fred, get your ass out of there,” Paul shouted. “There’s frigging Mogas all over. It’s going up!”
Sensing Paul’s panic, he climbed out and ran for safety to where the others huddled. Seconds later, the motor sputtered; without a whimper, it simply shut down.
“Well, I’ll be a sonofa...!”
After they guided in another chopper to extract the downed crew and the Rangers left them, Walz and Paul were alone. They headed off in the same direction that they’d seen their Rangers disappear, trying to catch up. Traveling only a short distance, they came upon LT Charley Ford and CPT “Bo” Baker; both had been passengers on another chopper. One of their Vietnamese Rangers had been shot in the leg; Walz stopped to bandage it.
“Come on, Fred,” Charlie Ford yelled. “We’re moving out. We’ve got to get to “Siugz” before they get wiped out!”
Walz finished his task and ran to catch up. Siugzda would never forgive him if he wasn’t among the first to reach him. As they moved, Walz detected a large group of dead Vietnamese. At first he surmised they might be Siugzda’s besieged Rangers, but checking more closely, he determined they were NVA soldiers killed earlier by the encircled Ranger force.
At the sound of the helicopters, the enemy had pulled back from Siugzda’s group, which allowed the entrapped Rangers to withdraw back down the hill. As more reinforcements landed, Tom Humphus led his Ranger company through the thicket, up the ridge toward the sound of firing. On the way up, he encountered LT Wentz stumbling down the path, his head covered in blood. Humphus spoke to him as they neared each other.
“Is that you, Tom?” Wentz cried. “I can’t see. I’m blind.Blind!”
When he was close enough, Humphus reached out and removed Wentz’s blood-coated glasses, watching quietly as relief washed over his friend’s face.
“Oh,” was all Wentz said. “Well shit, I ain’t blind.”
After pulling back from the battered Ranger force, the enemy hadn’t left the area completely. That initial ambush and subsequent rescue turned into a vicious, extended encounter that lasted for two more days; for their actions, 1LT Charley Ford won a Silver Star and SSG Frederick A. Waltz was awarded the Army Commendation Medal for valor.
Walz is a sturdy, no-nonsense kind of guy. While his reflections were low-key, modest and straight forward, one sensed he might be leaving out more information about his exploits than he was willing to share. He still exudes confidence, as he did when others’ lives depended on him. Herb Siugzda, a soft-spoken “Steve-McQueen-sort-of-guy” of about sixty, appears ten years younger. He is physically fit, with an impression he could still make a parachute jump, heft a heavy rucksack and trudge through dense mountainous jungle. While Siugzda tends to be more laid-back, he retains his caustic sense of humor and isn’t one to get excited about much. Given a dangerous mission, one feels they would still be safe with either of these seasoned warriors and not have to worry about having their back covered.
* * * * * *
During Operation Pirous with the 3rd Marine Division, several teams were inserted into A Shau Valley from FOB-1 at Hue-Phu Bai. Deputy Commander, MAJ Charles (Bruiser) Allen, who would later take the Delta command from LTC William C. Norman, received an Army Commendation Medal for valor for his actions. Recon personnel receiving awards for bravery during Operation Pirous were: SFC Orville G. Robinette, Silver Star; SFC Joseph M. Markam, Silver Star; and SSG Herbert Siugzda, ARCM/v. Wounded yet again, Siugzda earned a
Purple Heart.
34 Jim Morris. “Death-dealing Project Delta-Part 3: Interview with the Big ‘Un.” projectdelta.net/sofmag3_pg1.htm
35 Ibid.
SEVENTEEN
The FNG
THE FOB FOR OPERATIONS SAMURAI II AND PIROUS I was west of the small coastal town of Phu Bai, near Hue’s ancient Imperial City. With an airstrip and Marine Corps dispensary nearby, B-52 set up operations south of the Marine hospital. The facilities were adjacent to a large cemetery, situated between them and the town. From Phu Bai, a decent gravel road passed by their camp to a rock quarry; there, a rifle range made it handy for Delta Recon to test fire weapons and run Immediate Action Drills. The range, while a substantial distance away, was also located high on the slope of a large hill mass, making it necessary to have a radio relay aircraft on station every day. That aircraft, an old DeHaviland Otter, was stationed at the Phu Bai airstrip. Used as everything from an airborne taxi to resupply runs for rations and beer, the Otter soon became as beloved as any other member of the team.
The Otter would land at the dirt strip on the north side of the FOB to pick up radio relay operators, and remain over night. There was usually a double-strand of concertina around the strip and the pilot was used to clearing it with his tail wheel. One day, someone decided to add a third roll on top of the other two. When the pilot took off, the tail wheel caught the top wire and the additional weight was too much for the single-engine craft. It pulled the plane down, and it crashed and burned. Sergeant First Class Bartlett was Delta’s relay operator that day. Everyone on board was a casualty and the Otter never flew again.
Above: Delta’s trusty old Otter at Phu Bai. SSG Andy Sheppard is standing front
Right: Otter after the crash. (Both photos courtesy of Maurice Brakeman)
During both operations, B-52 was running recon for the Marines in and around A Shau Valley, often humorously referred to as “Happy Valley.” Three antiquated French camps dotted the valley: to the north, A Luoi; Ta Bat in the center; and A Shau at the southern end. The previous year, A Shau had been occupied by a Special Forces A-Team and 200 Montagnard tribesmen until overrun by three NVA regiments. Only three miles from the Laotian border, the camp straddled a major trail system for supplies heading south; the NVA couldn’t afford to let the camp remain—the camp fell in late 1966, the NVA losing more than 1,000 men.
The rough terrain east of the A Shau Valley. With its dense jungle and rivers, it had few suitable LZs—an enemy advantage, since they didn’t have to spread troops too thin to watch them. The few sufficiently cleared areas were always easy “killing fields” (Photo courtesy of Steve Adams)
At this junction, the border is a north-south range of mountainous terrain, with more high ground parallel to the long valley axis on the east. In essence, an almost perfect box, ideal for an NVA staging area, with anti-aircraft batteries dug in to afford the best field of fire. The center of the valley was under continuous surveillance; anything that moved was hit with a tactical air strike. The enemy’s anti-aircraft positions not only made air strikes difficult, but as Delta Recon teams began their insertions, the focus of these big guns shifted—to the choppers.
After months of intensive defoliant spraying and air strikes, the valley center was almost devoid of vegetation; bomb craters dotted the landscape. The closer the choppers tried to advance, the more hazardous it became; it became extremely difficult to find an insertion point not already occupied by fortified enemy positions. A direct helicopter insertion on the valley floor would have been suicidal. The teams were forced to select a first, second and third choice as alternatives—often rappelling into adjacent hills and then creeping back toward their target area. This procedure was not uncommon; it was rare to find an opening large enough to land a helicopter. Utilizing alternative methods of insertion and extraction was fraught with danger, for many soldiers were often injured or killed when using improvisations, such as McGuire Rigs, rope ladders and jungle penetrators.
One such incident took place towards the end of Delta’s era in War Zone D, when the Delta FOB was located at Bunard. First Lieutenant Agustin “Gus” Fabian, 1st Ranger Company Advisor, recalls his operation with a reinforced Ranger platoon on a reconnaissance in-force mission. Inserted at mid-morning, the Rangers quickly moved off the LZ into triple-canopy jungle. After completing their mission, a suitable LZ still could not be found; an FOB staff officer came up with an idea. They were dropped chainsaws and instructed to cut down trees to make a clearing for a one-ship LZ. Overhead, heavy, thick vines draped the trees making it hard to fell them.
Completing their task just before dusk, a monsoon hit only minutes before the choppers arrived. The driving force of the wind and rain not only impaired the pilots’ vision, but increased the risk associated with landing in such a tight clearance. Regardless, one brave pilot attempted to descend into the small, tight space. A standard Slick with crew is designed to hold approximately a squad of combat-equipped soldiers; that is, when landing and take-off conditions are favorable. Having to descend and ascend vertically is extremely challenging and places tremendous strain on this small craft, even when lightly loaded. More Rangers loaded the ship than had been assigned, and in the extraction process as the chopper lifted off, four fell to their deaths; two onto the LZ and two others into the dense jungle. Another pilot was able to land and retrieve the Rangers on the LZ, but they died on route to the field hospital. The remaining force was extracted the following day, and then reinserted with a full company to search for and evacuate the two remaining dead Rangers. The increased activity quickly drew NVA interest, and during the second night, the enemy initiated probing attacks against the Ranger force. Before long, “Puff the Magic Dragon” arrived, which made the enemy forces pull back, finally breaking up their concentrated attack. Under continual harassing attacks, the Rangers searched the dense jungle for three days for their dead comrades; they were never found.
* * * * * *
Jay Graves vividly recollects his first time in the hole. “Doc” Simpson had sent him, along with Andre St. Laurent and five Chinese Nungs; St. Laurent briefed Graves just prior to their leaving. In his relaxed, nonchalant style, the briefing went something like this: “First we’re gonna sneak around a little, maybe take a few pictures, then we’re gonna shoot a bunch of folks.” That was it.
They went in at last light, the helicopter hovering a few feet above an A Shau Valley river sandbar. The first two days were, for the most part, uneventful. Graves, the FNG, had the mannerisms of an owl— his eyes darted everywhere. He tried to anticipate anything out of place, a sound that might warn of enemy presence, or any nuance foreboding an ambush. By the fourth day, he settled down and relaxed a bit—then they made contact. Fifteen VC swimming in the river. St. Laurent aligned his team along the bank, called for immediate extraction and opened up, killing them all; they extracted without further incident. Graves’s first enemy encounter was vicious and bloody. The memory forever seared into his mind, it set the stage for his next five years in Vietnam.
Upon returning to the FOB, St. Laurent gave Doc Simpson his report. “Jay Graves is all right—he can go in the hole with anyone.”
Graves was teamed with the consummate recon man, “Moose” Monroe, a “marriage” that would last for the next five years. Graves went on to serve multiple tours and is held in high esteem as one of Delta’s best and most experienced.
* * * * * *
Vietnam in July can be damned hot. Upon arrival in Cam Ranh Bay, twenty-two-year-old buck-sergeant James R. Jarrett first noticed the oppressive heat, then the smell—a reeking combination of mold and raw sewage. He would eventually get used to both. After his graduation, second in his class from Special Forces Operations and Intelligence School (O&I), he was delighted to be rid of his despised engineer and demolitions MOS for “something a bit more interesting.” “Besides,” he recollected, “explosives always made me nervous.” At the time, he could never have imagined just how “interesting” the next f
ew months would be.
He had heard rumors of something called Project Delta while at Fort Bragg, North Carolina; that it was the premier unit and among the most secretive of SF operations. Anxious to try out his O&I training and newly acquired Vietnamese language skills, he decided that was the place for him. His instructor felt his aptitude for excellint in language stemmed from a classical pianist background—odd skills for a man who longed to be a warrior.
After a few days at the replacement center, during which time Jarrett was issued an M-16 rifle and outfitted for combat operations, SFC Doc Simpson and SGM William Fuller came by seeking “volunteers” to fill recent B-52 recon team vacancies. The next day, Jarrett, Joe Walker and another man, referred to only as Thompson, were hand-picked and headed for the Delta compound at Nha Trang. Jarrett was assigned to bunk with Ken Edens, a tough, lean redhead, with the savvy and experience Jarrett would need to acquire to succeed in Delta Recon. They’d be “joined at the hip” for the weeks to come.
As the FNG, he spent the first two weeks in orientation and training, then was sent to help establish an FOB near An Hoa, where B-52 had been running recon teams west of Da Nang for the 5th Marines. He soon learned he’d been relegated to setting up FOB headquarters tents and latrines, and to performing menial tasks only the FNGs and support personnel were required to do. Recon guys didn’t do these things— they were royalty—and that’s what Jarrett wanted. Sweating in the oppressive humidity, he kept his mouth shut and labored to set up tents, wondering what the hell he was doing there.
