by Morris Ray
In the Central Highlands the monsoons were about to wreak havoc and the cloudy sky seemed brooding, threatening. He wondered if helicopters could actually fly in those conditions and if he’d ever get the chance to find out. After a day and a half perspiring with the rest of the “grunts,” he was summarily summoned to the “head-shed” with his M16 and field equipment. So far, the whole operation had seemed surreal and ominous. He hoped not to encounter more of the same at his first meeting.
After receiving word that Doc Simpson wanted to see him at the Tactical Operation Center (TOC), he double-timed it over, only to learn his “baptism by fire” would not be a recon operation after all, but a body recovery mission for the crew of a downed Marine chopper. Introduced to SFC Joe Singh and a nervous SP5 medic, Jarrett learned he’d be in charge of a reinforced squad of 81st Rangers who would provide security for the body recovery effort. The more highly experienced Singh would be in charge of the overall recovery detail, because Simpson said they’d likely be going into a “hot” situation.
Marine troop-carrier helicopters, dubbed “Jolly Greens,” flew them to where a FAC had last seen the downed chopper, setting them down into a sea of elephant grass. The chopper lumbered off into the darkening sky, leaving him in the lonely silence of the unknown. Without a word, Singh briskly led off. Struggling to maintain Singh’s pace, Jarrett quickly discovered that being in great shape wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, particularly when humping a rucksack through the highlands of Vietnam. Slipping, sliding, panting and cussing, he and the new medic followed Singh and the VN Rangers, who all seemed to annoyingly glide along almost effortlessly. It would be weeks, with several more operations under his belt, before he would find his jungle legs and feel more at ease moving through the terrain.
On a charred hillside, the small group eventually broke into a large clearing. Near the bottom of a steep draw lay the incinerated hulk of a large chopper—and the bodies of the dead Marine crew. Except for trousers and boots, they’d been stripped of their gear and bore the brunt of numerous bullet wounds. Jarrett noticed none had been burned, leading him to conclude they initially escaped the crash alive, killed afterward. It was a terrible sight; it left him feeling sick and angry. To escape the gruesome sight of the mutilated Marines, more than anything else, he walked over to view the helicopter’s twisted remains. Once a huge, impressive flying contraption, now nearly disintegrated, the chopper was a mass of molten metal and Plexiglas. The magnesiumclad floor and other combustible parts had fueled a fire so intense that only bits and pieces of the once proud Jolly Green remained, its rotor blades sticking upward like the ribcage of a great decaying beast.
Joe Singh jerked him back to reality.
“Jarrett! Take the Rangers, get up the slope, and set up security. Move your ass!”
Jarrett did as instructed, grateful to leave Singh and the medic while they checked the bodies, readying them for the recovery chopper. Jarrett placed the Rangers in positions that provided the best security; given the fact that he only had about a dozen men—he hoped they were enough. He felt they’d all be history if they got hit by something of any size on this scorched hillside. From his spot in the center of the Ranger’s small defensive position he couldn’t see Singh, and without a radio, couldn’t communicate with the others. The Rangers didn’t seem particularly concerned about his welfare and that worried him, too. He maneuvered until he established a direct line of sight with Singh and the medic, watching them work. Somehow, it made him feel better.
The whoop of rotor blades caught his attention; he looked up. A Marine recovery helicopter moved into position, slowly lowering a cable and sling through its open belly. He presumed either it was impossible to land the large aircraft on the steep hillside, or the pilot didn’t want to stay there any longer than absolutely necessary. Jarrett could appreciate that. He wished he were someplace else, too. The rotor-wash kicked up dust and debris, obscuring the scene for a moment and making it impossible to hear. A single shot rang out, loud and clear. Jarrett saw Singh clutch his chest, double over and head for concealment in a clump of brush, the new medic close behind.
He later learned that Singh hadn’t been hit squarely, but that the round had only grazed his chest, slicing through the bottom of his shirt pocket—the only casualty being the signal mirror in his pocket. Jarrett’s first reaction was total confusion. It seemed clear by Singh’s reaction that more firing was taking place, but the rotor-wash caused so much turbulence that he couldn’t see the muzzle flashes or the bullets impacting, and he couldn’t hear the shooting over the noise of the hovering helicopter. The chopper suddenly banked hard to the left, and with the recovery cable and sling still dangling, disappeared from sight. Fear gripped him as he glanced around, suddenly aware he was alone. The Rangers had all pulled back and were nowhere to be seen.
Singh, fifty meters down the slope from Jarrett, remained stationary, pinned down by the undetected sniper. He peered up the hill toward Jarrett, his expression a question mark. Jarrett shrugged, pointing simply in the direction he thought the rounds were coming. Once the chopper departed, there was total silence. The relatively inexperienced Jarrett wondered what to do next. By moving closer to the others, he risked exposing them to more sniper fire. Yet, he was equally exposed, fully expecting to be shot at any moment. He could retreat into the brush and hopefully find the Rangers, but that might place him in a position where he wouldn’t be able to help his fellow Americans if they faced an all-out attack. None of the alternatives seemed acceptable.
Sporadic small arms fire erupted, and while he still couldn’t tell from where, he could see the round’s impact near Singh and the medic. He strained to see into the thick foliage, but still couldn’t detect the enemy’s position. To top it off, the weather was taking a turn for the worse and it would soon be dark. If unable to get the bodies out quickly, they’d have to remain out there overnight; he didn’t want to think about that possibility. Jarrett began to fire methodically at any concealed location that might hold an enemy sniper. Just when it appeared things couldn’t be worse, they got worse—Jarrett’s rifle jammed. Irritated by his weapon’s malfunction, his first order of business was to get it operational. He desperately needed to shoot back at someone. So in the midst of his first firefight, he simply sat and began to field-strip his rifle. As he contemplated the different components, it occurred to him that the base of the bolt was bone-dry, and he detected some carbon buildup. Retrieving his oil-based insect repellant, he sprayed it onto the bolt, oiled the rest of his weapon and began to reassemble it. He was thankful that the firing had finally abated. He never even considered the enemy might be maneuvering to get behind them; otherwise he’d really have been scared.
Before completing the task of reassembling his rifle, “things became very interesting.” First, Singh was successful in contacting a FAC, who’d fired off a couple of white phosphorous rockets onto the hillside about 100 meters from Jarrett’s position. Then, several gunships began to arrive, pouring mini-gun fire onto the hill around them. At last, the recovery chopper returned, the door-gunner opening fire with his M-60 machinegun. All this commotion sounded really good, but if Jarrett hoped the increased firepower might deter the enemy, he was sorely disappointed.
It seemed the enemy had been reinforced; with a vengeance, automatic small arms fire answered, but this time Jarrett made out the unmistakable resonance of a heavy machinegun added to the enemy’s arsenal. He would later realize that his overwhelming impression had been the mind-numbing noise of combat. The clamor seemed to blanket him; it affected his vision, balance and even his ability to think coherently. It wouldn’t have been any different if his buddies had been an arm length away instead of fifty yards; communication was impossible. Jarrett would realize that what he felt was the same as others had felt the first time under fire; with experience he would learn to control his reactions.
Singh and the medic darted through the intense fire, placing Marine bodies into the dangling sling.
As soon as a body was loaded, it was winched up. It seemed agonizingly slow, one body at a time, as bullets whizzed past the chopper or kicked up dirt around them.
Jarrett scrambled to complete reassembling his weapon, irritated that he hadn’t been able to shoot someone. Ready to snap his weapon closed and push the retention pin into place, the sound of the enemy heavy machinegun’s changed minutely. With experience, he’d come to recognize the subtle sounds meant they were firing directly at him. Taken by surprise, he watched in dumb fascination as the heavy rounds walked a perfect line up the hill, across his position. He distinctly recalls two rounds striking dirt to the side of his left knee, another precisely between his legs, and then two more hitting just beyond his right thigh and hip. He wasn’t scared, just amazed he hadn’t been hit. Snapping his weapon shut, he withdrew a magazine of tracers, shoved it in, locked and loaded.
He admits he was pretty excited about finally having someone to shoot at. He never considered that he might have easily been blown to pieces by the destructive .51-caliber rounds. He yelled to Singh about spotting the shooter, but through the racket wasn’t sure if Singh heard him. It just seemed very important that he tell someone. He fired several tracers to where he had spotted the heavy MG fire, and Singh, with his field experience, understood and spoke into the radio. Within minutes the gunship returned, raking that area with their mini-guns, forever silencing the .51 MG.
The other small arms fire continued and Jarrett placed his rounds wherever he believed the incoming fire originated. Suddenly, he sensed a presence and noticed the Ranger squad leader and several of his VN Rangers had crept back in; they seemed to want to press close, to touch him. Squatting, they pointed to areas where they had observed fire, grinning and jabbering in Vietnamese. Jarrett proceeded to fire tracers to where they pointed, perplexed by their behavior of crowding close and touching him. He later learned that they had watched the machinegun fire walk its path across his position, and believed that he must be charmed—protected by Buddha.
He observed that the last Marine body was slung and hoisted, and Singh was quickly approaching his location. In Vietnamese fashion, Singh squatted, seemingly undisturbed by their circumstances, or by the fact that sporadic sniper rounds continued to pop around them.
“Better travel, Jim. The FAC says the little buggers are moving in on three sides, and the gunships are running low on ammo and fuel. We can’t get any fast-movers in here with this cloud cover, so we’d better haul ass in a hurry.”
Without a sound, Singh started down the draw they’d slipped and slid up earlier, the Rangers in hot pursuit. If anything, their boots made the rugged draw more treacherous; Jarrett and the medic struggled to keep up. In the clouds, they could hear the comforting sound of the recovery helicopter’s rotor blades beating the thick evening air. Although it was Jarrett’s first combat operation, he knew they were in a tight spot and needed to get the hell out as quickly as possible. As if the enemy had decided not to let them depart, firing intensity had increased, clipping the elephant grass surrounding them. In the dim evening light he caught sight of his first green tracers streaking across the darkening sky. U.S. tracer rounds are red; the Red Chinese make green tracers— beautiful and deadly. With the gunships’ racket and the noise from the recovery aircraft, identifying a threat through sound was nearly impossible. Like others before had learned, Jarrett’s Vietnam experience would affect his perspective of many things; distance, noise, time, fear and feeling alone despite the presence of others.
Jarrett glanced at the young medic falling behind, struggling to keep pace; panic reflected in his eyes. He stopped and waved him past, taking up the tail-gunner position. In the blink of an eye, the time used to scan the trail behind for signs of pursuit, he turned back and found himself alone. Heart pounding wildly, he hauled ass, following the broken, bleeding trail of crushed grass that the Rangers had left, the only sign that they were ahead. Breaking through into a small saddle-shaped clearing, the chopper’s rotor-wash assaulted him, slowing his progress, pushing him away from safety. When the chopper produced a high-pitched rev as if it were ready to lift off, he admits he almost had a heart attack.
Exiting the dense vegetation about ten meters from the Jolly Green’s lowered tailgate, he saw Singh on the edge of it, anxiously scanning the tall grass. Jarrett leaped for the tailgate, beginning to lift, and felt Singh’s hands grab his webbing as he fell forward onto the hard surface. Too exhausted to move, he gasped for breath. The VN Rangers pointed and babbled at him, their gold teeth glinting in the dim light. He thought, Buddha my ass! It had been one-hell of a first operation. The heavy chopper lurched forward, and lifted off.
At the FOB, if he had hoped to discuss the operation, he was sadly disappointed. Singh told him to get some chow—that was the end of it. They never spoke of it again. It didn’t take him long to realize this was just another Project Delta workday; no-big-deal. Years later, Singh would become Jarrett’s sergeant major with the 10th Special Forces Group, Fort Devens, Massachusetts. Still, the operation was never spoken of—Doc Simpson, however, did casually remark that Joe Singh had once mentioned that Jarrett had done well on his first operation.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Jarrett said.
* * * * * *
Eventually, Jarrett transitioned from being a FNG to the number three team member following Moose Monroe, team leader, and roommate Ken Edens, assistant team leader. Moose, in Southeast Asia periodically since 1961, knew almost everything there was to know about recon and jungle survival. His competition, if any, had been Ken Edens. Jarrett decided that he’d watch these two and learn as much as he could. However, his first trip into the hole hadn’t been with Moose Monroe, at all, but with Jay Graves. He soon learned there were others within Delta just as skilled in the art of combat recon.
Although he trained with high anticipation, the first time in the hole seemed foreign and surreal. Under the triple-layer canopy, the night was blanketed in an inky black; it took getting used to. Initially daunting, it soon began to feel more like an old friend. Stealth, silence and the cloak of darkness—another way to avoid detection. Around midnight, the team went on a fifty percent alert; a two-hour shift each, one American always awake. During the next five days they crept through the jungle, ghost-like, as Jarrett learned how to look and what to listen for. Eventually, he learned how to detect carefully camouflaged bunkers and obscure trail markers, and could differentiate between enemy tracks and those of indigenous farmers.
What impressed him most was that hardly anyone spoke aloud, with the exception of Graves, who, when whispering radio contacts had his face buried in his boonie hat to muffle the sound. Communication was accomplished merely by a hand or arm signal, a slight snap of the fingers or a soft whistle. He noticed how Edens and Graves shared thoughts simply with an expression; they had worked together for so long. No longer the FNG, he was still a novice; his two mentors were patient when he screwed up or made more noise than he should. Soon, he learned how to shorten his stride, balance on the steep slopes, step nimbly over rough and uneven terrain and cross a slippery stream-bed.
Jarrett was twenty-two, physically fit and could run a six-minute mile in jungle boots and fatigues. He was, as Special Forces men are known to say, “as hard as Superman’s kneecap.” However, he quickly learned that being in top running condition had little relationship with an ability to hump a heavy rucksack, weapon and radio gear over severe terrain while remaining silent and vigilant. By the end of his first day he was so exhausted that he couldn’t eat or drink. Graves and Edens must have observed his fatigue; they didn’t have him stand watch for the next two nights until he toughened into the routine.
Jarrett recollects, “They both demonstrated the quiet professionalism and leadership that is hallmark of Special Forces soldiers everywhere.” They were his mentors, his heroes—he learned their lessons well.
Although their small patrol had numerous indications that the enemy was active, such as occasionally hearing t
heir voices, no visual contact had been made for four days. They were grateful the weather remained overcast. Although an overcast sky can mute sound, the gloomy cover can be a double-edged sword. If too overcast, it’s impossible to get tactical air support or a helicopter in for extraction.
Jarrett soon learned to identify natural jungle sounds; monkeys, other unidentifiable animals, birds, insects. Coming across the molted transparent skin of a monster-sized cobra, he hoped never to run into one, or one of the little bamboo krait vipers. He mastered the jungle’s sounds, or lack thereof, as either the signal of human absence or presence. He was becoming seasoned.
On the fifth day out, they awoke to the sound of a distant battle being waged. A FAC flew over, advising Graves that a Marine battalion reported they were in a life and death struggle with NVA regulars, five miles away. They also were notified that they were scheduled for extraction later in the day. That news brought smiles; another team was coming in to replace them. Still, they were warned to be careful. Over-flights confirmed the area was hot, teeming with enemy activity. Their smiles quickly diminished.
