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

by Morris Ray

  Joined again with their VN counterparts, they headed south, where their cover would be denser. In these relatively open areas, they felt like sitting ducks. Jarrett glanced up toward the patches of blue sky as he heard a distant drone. A FAC flew over and revved his engine, a signal he wanted them to come up on the radio. Jay buried his face in his boonie hat, speaking into the handset. Bruiser wanted a situation report, the FAC would relay for him. Major Allen informed them a Slick and two gunships were inbound to pick them up, but the weather window wouldn’t last long. They were to bust their hump getting to the new LZ. Bruiser reminded them that if they made it to the LZ, he’d personally be there to greet them. He didn’t need to tell them, they knew he would. He always did.

  Hours passed. Nearly exhausted, using only sheer guts as fuel, they finally made it to within 100 meters of the LZ before taking on sporadic small arms fire. Bruiser’s C&C ship was on site, as were the gunships. He informed them jets were in-bound, only a few minutes out. He also let them know that the LZ was barely large enough to allow one Slick to make its vertical descent through triple canopy and hover just above the ground. The FAC swooped in, fired a rocket on the LZ to mark it for their recovery chopper and a loud roar shook them—the fast-movers had arrived. Graves grinned and Jarrett tried to suppress a spirited war whoop; with all the activity it was still pretty noisy. He knew the bad guys were rapidly closing in.

  The recon team burst from the brush just as their Slick settled into the small hole, hovering. Jarrett dropped back to cover their six, while Graves helped the smaller VN guys climb into the wobbling chopper. These diminutive men, especially when weighted down, always had difficulty entering. One of the Delta guys was the recovery NCO; Jarrett caught site of a broad hand extending to yank one up. It might have been Gary Stedman’s, but Jarrett couldn’t be sure. As the team’s One Zero, Graves was always the first on the ground, and the last off. While they perceived the enemy had been in hot pursuit before the air cover arrived, the prop wash and roar of the jets made it impossible to hear others approach from behind. Jarrett scoured the tall grass, fretting— the process seemed much too slow. The VN recon members bunched at the chopper’s door, anxious to get inside.

  Jarrett, frustrated by the bottleneck, went to the front of the chopper, intent on gaining entrance through the opposite door. Passing by the Plexiglas bubble cockpit, the startled co-pilot made eye contact, recoiling at his camouflaged, bloodied face. Within seconds, the bubble disintegrated as automatic fire struck it. Only then did he take notice of the 281st AHC pilot in the cockpit. Motionless, the pilot held the ship steady as the team struggled to get aboard. Jarrett noticed the young pilot’s eyes, fixated on a vague object; his hands trying to keep the craft level and stable until every man had safely boarded. Finally, it lifted off, up and away. The chopper was banged up so badly it was forced to land at a Special Forces camp halfway to Hue.

  * * * * * *

  Jarrett wished he could remember the name of that young 281st AHC pilot, adamant that his brave acts were responsible for lifting them up out of the hole that day. “Without the courageous 281st pilots and crew, none of us would be home today,” he said.

  James Jarrett and Jay Graves remain friends. “Jay is one of the finest field soldiers I’ve ever been in the bush with, and I still love him like a brother,” Jarrett said, then added ruefully, “The fact that he’s probably clinically crazy just makes him all the more endearing.”

  Jarrett reinforced how Special Forces troopers are undeniably a “special” breed, and that it had been an honor and privilege to call these men brothers: “Moose” Monroe, Gary Stedman, Ken Edens, Jay Graves, Mike Norris and many others. When transitioning from SF to a different career, soldiers were often plagued by societal adjustments, and Jarrett was no exception. Initially, as a Los Angeles undercover narcotics officer, and later, as a college professor, he often felt discouraged by colleagues who didn’t measure up to the high caliber of competence expected of a Special Forces soldier. It has been difficult for him to reconcile differences; he relishes his friendships with his old Delta comrades—those who know and understand.

  Jay Graves with enough steaks to last the Nungs a month! (Photo courtesy of the Project Delta website)

  * * * * * *

  As Operation Delta Junction kicked off in the A Shau Valley, SGT Jay Graves and “Moose” Monroe had both been alerted to scrounge up some demo men. Ten camouflaged enemy trucks, presumed to be crammed full with combat goodies, were reported as setting idle in a motor pool lot. Delta would be going in “in force,” hell-bent on destroying every last one. D.J. Taylor, Joe Singh and SP5 Merriman, a demo expert, were assigned to head up one team, while Monroe, Graves and a young school-trained demo man, SP4 Johnnie Link, led the other. One Ranger company would accompany them. They never knew how sorely lacking they would be in numbers as a reinforced NVA battalion waited on the LZ.

  From the outset, the landing force had been trapped on the LZ. With little prospects for getting out, or for bringing more helicopters in, the only choice was to set up perimeter defensive positions and dig in. The vicious fighting would last several days; finally reinforced by another Ranger company and a Marine contingent. In all, thirteen helicopters were shot down. Merriman and Link attempted to reach a small knoll to retrieve a wounded Marine pilot. Reaching the wounded man, Link picked him up and Merriman covered for him. They were fired upon by a concealed machinegun and Merriman went down, hit in the foot. Link carried the wounded Marine to cover in a nearby crater, and then under intense fire, returned for Merriman. The machinegun continued firing as Link fell on top of Merriman to protect him from further hits, and took three rounds in the back. Captain Jim Morris, a combat vet who previously had served with Special Forces units previously, was with them that day as a journalist for the Green Beret Magazine. Braving deadly fire, he dragged Link toward safety, but was hit and wounded severely himself. Staff Sergeant Anthony and SSG Stedman saw what had happened and quickly rushed to drag the wounded men into a bomb crater. Link would not survive his numerous wounds. He lasted through the night but without emergency hospital care, died the following morning; all medivac attempts were thwarted by the foul weather and deadly automatic fire. Morris’s wounds were so serious they eventually forced him into early retirement from the Army.

  Graves detected a pilot still seated in one of the downed infiltration helicopters. Although he appeared dead, Graves decided he could not allow him to remain any longer, sitting there under enemy fire. He had given enough. Graves and Monroe ran toward the damaged chopper to pull the dead pilot from the front seat. Graves was the first to notice SFC Thompson, Jim Morris’s Green Beret Magazine photographer, snapping pictures near the bent tail blades.

  “Better get your ass down, boy,” Graves warned. “Them are real bullets you hear zinging past.”

  No sooner had he spoken those words, the photographer was hit, dropping instantly. Graves rushed to examine him; he’d been hit in the chest. Still breathing, pink frothy bubbles exuded from his wound; it was clear he had sustained a sucking chest wound. Under intense fire, Monroe hoisted and carried the dead pilot while Graves shouldered the wounded photographer, returning to the relative safety of a bomb crater.

  * * * * * *

  During the operation in the A Shau Valley, fourteen men were killed during the first two days of that battle, and thirteen aircraft destroyed, one an Air Force jet fighter. The much sought after trucks that had started the whole mess were never found.

  * * * * * *

  Thompson, the Green Beret Magazine photographer, survived. Years later, by chance, Jay Graves ran into him at Fort Bragg, N.C., and Thompson told him he was no longer with a news agency. He had become an A-team Operations NCO.

  NINETEEN

  Bruiser

  FROM 11 AUGUST THROUGH 10 SEPTEMBER 1967, Delta Recon was back in the A Shau Valley—this time for Operation Samurai I and Samurai II, with legendary Project Delta Commander, MAJ Chuck “Bruiser” Allen leading
by example. Allen was no nonsense when it came to operations; he took charge of team insertions and extractions, logged more than 500 missions in his C&C aircraft and often served on the ground with his forces. The mission came first. He expected nothing less from subordinates. Historically, Delta’s recon teams were led by the most capable, experienced noncommissioned officers within Special Forces.

  Higher echelons briefly experimented with having younger officers, many of whom were less experienced, accompany the teams. On a particularly dangerous mission in the An Lo Valley, LT Charlie Ford radioed Allen to inform him that he had left his weapon on the chopper during the team’s insertion. The shaken officer asked for immediate extraction. Allen’s reply was short and to the point: “Cut a f _ _ _ing spear. Continue mission.”

  Without his weapon, Ford nervously toted a grenade for the entire operation while learning a valuable lesson. He was later reassigned to the Ranger battalion, and regarded as one of the best young leaders in Project Delta. He would be awarded two Silver Stars for his actions with Delta’s 81st Airborne Ranger Battalion. Bruiser Allen’s lessons were hard, but constructive.

  In an unfortunate training accident after returning to the States, Charlie Ford died in a helicopter crash at Fort Benning, GA.

  * * * * * *

  Bruiser Allen was an imposing figure; 250 pounds, all muscle. Easygoing and pleasant, he had an undeniable expression of innocence, much as a teenager might when getting away with something. A gap in his front teeth and a chipped tooth added to his “over-grown-kid” persona. Despite this affable style, the best interests of his men were always foremost, and his knowledge of Project Delta was never questioned. As far as his men were concerned, he’d written the book. Jim Tolbert recalled this about Allen: “While it’s true that Special Forces NCOs were the ones on the ground and did the dirty dancing, Chuck Allen played the music, and he was never out of key.”36

  Captain Terrel “Ken” Naumann previously served with Allen on several 1st Special Forces Group assignments, so he wasn’t overly surprised when he got a call while attending the Infantry Officers Advanced Course at Fort Benning, GA. He’d been attending a boring lecture when a “priority” call came in from an overseas location, pulling him from class. A gravelly voice greeted him. “Hey asshole, how you doing?”

  He knew the voice instantly. It was MAJ Allen. Somehow, Allen knew Naumann was due for a Vietnam assignment; he told him not to opt for anything special—that he’d be coming to Project Delta. It never occurred to Naumann to question him. Allen wanted him, and that was good enough.

  He had been around long enough to know that Allen had one of the best “spy” networks in the U.S. Army. Twelve days after his graduation, Naumann landed in Nha Trang. He reported in, and was immediately met by Allen.

  “Get settled. You’re going to be my S3.”

  Working on the staff wasn’t how Naumann saw himself spending the next year; he objected strenuously. He couldn’t envision himself as a staff officer, even with Project Delta. He was combat arms, and he wanted to lead troops on the ground. Allen listened intently to his objections, then simply said, “Unpack, settle in, and read everything in the S3 shop so you can do the job.”

  That was that. Naumann would be the S3.

  An I Corps operation was ongoing at that time, and Allen flew to Phu Bai the following morning. Naumann joined him two days later. He’d just arrived and dropped his bag when Allen told him to follow along. As they strode toward the flight line, Allen explained that two teams were being inserted that evening. Naumann would accompany him in the C&C chopper. He said Naumann’s only mission, for the time being, was to stay within earshot, listen and learn as much as possible—and keep his mouth shut. The S2 would explain the entire mission upon their return to the FOB, and he could ask questions at that time.

  “In the meantime, don’t get on the chopper intercom and start talking,” Allen said. “You don’t know enough yet to talk.” That was Naumann’s first exposure to Chuck Allen’s brand of combat leadership.

  Approaching the launch pad, Naumann detected a distinct change in the troops’ posture and demeanor; nothing particular stood out, just subtleties, like immediately picking up their gear, getting ready to go. Their mannerisms spoke volumes more than words ever could; Bruiser was there, they could go now. It was not as if anyone jumped up or saluted—just quiet, understated respect for their leader. The crews and recon teams stood silently by the helicopters, waiting as Allen passed. He asked them all the same question, “Are you ready?”

  There were few smiles, just a deferent, “Yes, Sir.”

  It was evident the boss had arrived. No one doubted that all the men, including the helicopter crews, were indeed, ready. In turn, Allen addressed each member of every recon team. Satisfied the teams were ready to go, Allen moved to take the pre-insertion edge off with light talk, bringing a few smiles to some darkly painted faces. Naumann watched, awed by the bonding of these warriors and the ultimate trust Allen conveyed through his body language and eye contact as he shook each team member’s hand and wished him luck. Their attitude conveyed he was Allen, their leader, confident that nothing had been left to chance by the Bruiser. No detail was too small that he’d overlooked it; no support required that he wouldn’t supply. And if they got into trouble, he’d employ any measure at his disposal to get them out. They were ready. Allen raised his hand in a circular motion and the engines revved. He climbed aboard the C&C chopper and Naumann followed—keeping his mouth shut as they took off.

  Naumann served with Allen at every FOB until after the New Year; he finally got his wish to command troops on the ground, becoming Senior Advisor to the 81st Airborne Rangers. Allen eventually told him that he’d been tagged “by name” to come to Delta, and he alone would evaluate Naumann’s combat leadership performance. Allen told him, “The first time you have contact with the guys, just introduce yourself and move on. You’re the FNG around here, and everyone is wondering who the hell you are because I personally picked you. Initially, you’ll have no authority in the FOB, unless I lay something on you. Play it soft, let them come to you. Eventually you’ll start to develop a rapport with some of them. The toughest will be Doc Simpson, the Recon Section Leader. Don’t let it worry you. He’s tough on everyone. No one has to like you, but you damn well have to earn their respect if they’re going to listen to you.”

  Allen suddenly grinned, displaying his prominent gap. “Hell, what am I telling you this for? You’ve been around. You know what to do. I’m going to check on the teams and go to bed.”

  “One thing was certain,” Naumann related. “Allen was a world-class combat leader. Delta accomplished its missions primarily because of his leadership—the teams knew they could depend on him.”

  Allen was a commanding presence unlike any others Naumann had seen. “There was little doubt that he was the boss,” he said. “His leadership style didn’t strike fear into anyone, but did preclude any fool-hardiness. Allen expected each Delta member to know his job and applicable SOPs, to the letter of the word, and had little trouble taking someone to task if he suspected they did not. Rarely, did he raise his voice. If someone was killed during an operation, his voice might elevate a bit, not in anger, but anguish, because a life had been lost— one he was responsible for. He was not given to verbiage, and when in a FOB, had little tolerance for it. He wanted pertinent information—clear, concise and complete, the first time around.”

  * * * * * *

  By all accounts, Ken Naumann was a fine officer and generally liked by everyone. Of average height, his eyes, soft and baggy, made him seem more serious and much older than he was. Perhaps it was his three previous tours in Vietnam. Naumann has since passed on, but he’s always mentioned with affection and great respect whenever the old Delta troopers get together.

  * * * * * *

  Failure simply was not in Chuck Allen’s vocabulary, and under his command, the unit executed every mission in an outstanding manner. If failure was never in
Allen’s lexicon, neither was it in his subordinates’. He always exhibited an air of confidence, and his confidence was contagious to those around him. If he had misgivings, he kept them to himself. His close affinity with his recon personnel was apparent by his team interactions and exchanges before insertion. While it never totally eliminated the pre-insertion fear, it did reinforce the idea that if they got into trouble, he’d do whatever was necessary to get them out.

  Allen understood a combat leader had to have heart, not a bleeding heart, nor one worn on the sleeve, but honest caring about the men he’d be sending into harm’s way. Yet, he also understood there were times when he had to harden his heart, weigh all the factors and make an unpopular decision as to when a rescue effort should be halted; to continue might mean additional loss of personnel and equipment, in far greater numbers than the element in trouble. His teams trusted him to make the right decision on their behalf.