by Morris Ray
Tolbert’s Delta experience was unique; he’d been fired from Project Delta after extending for a third straight year. With an abundance of Delta and SF experience behind him, he had little trouble landing another job, eventually with SOG. This fine soldier was also a prolific songwriter, and his lyrics were at the root of the problem between him and his new commander.
Tolbert tended to refer to the newest Delta Commander, LTC Bob Moore inauspiciously as, “...a non-Special Forces lieutenant colonel; just another conventional army officer trying to get his ticket punched.” His comments about Moore were in stark contrast to the high praise he’d heaped on Project Delta Commander Chuck Allen. Tolbert said the Project had been warned about Moore long before he’d arrived, and his reputation didn’t begin to do him justice. It would be the only time in Delta’s history that an experienced Special Forces trained officer hadn’t been in command of the elite unit; how that guy had been assigned was a complete mystery, even to the 5th Group Commander and his staff.
The consensus was that he must have been a relative of one of the generals in the theater, or had some other influence pulling for him. Tolbert had strong opinions on the subject; Moore had once been a cavalry officer who General Creighton Abrams had personally assigned, intent on undermining Special Forces. He’d made no pretense of disliking them. Some said that he was probably spying on the troops, but was too stupid to do it covertly. Tolbert, in his slow southern drawl, summed it up: “Nope...he’s just an asshole.”
After the war, Tolbert chronicled a summation of his firing and posted it to the Project Delta website. He wasn’t ashamed of being fired—he’d paid his dues. He wore his dismissal like a Purple Heart; a badge of honor. Here is his version of what transpired:
Project Delta was on stand-down from the first Trojan Horse operation near Mail Loc. Everyone was in the Delta Club letting it all hang out, as they usually did after a particularly difficult mission. What was unusual this night was that LTC Moore was with the teams, instead of at the 5th Group Officers Club hobnobbing with the group officer staff as usual. Tolbert was seated close to the bar at a round table with “Stick” Evans. With his guitar, he was entertaining himself and anyone else who’d listen. He and Stick had just returned from the cemetery, and he was trying his best to cheer up his friend and forget that god-awful place.
Billy “Stick” Evans was one of two “hill-country boys” assigned to Delta, both named Billy and considered among the best. The other was Billy Bean. While Bean had more of an Andy Capp personality—a Pall Mall cigarette perpetually hung from the corner of his mouth—he was always planning, scheming and ready for action. Evans, on the other hand, was more like a Special Ops’ version of World War One’s famous Sergeant York. In a firefight, while others poured on the lead with their M-16s in a “rock and roll” mode, Stick Evans was conservative about his ammunition. One shot—one kill.
Their visit to the graveyard hadn’t been pleasant. It was a nasty piece of land, more garbage dump than a cemetery. Holes were evidence of rats tunneling into the graves to get at corpses; the headstones either leaned precariously or had fallen over. A foul putrid odor hung in the air; one that even the strong South China Sea breeze couldn’t dissipate. A few Vietnamese squatted, burned incense, paper molds and handwritten prayers; each grieved while praying to their ancestors. They were surprised to see two Americans; after all, the Americans had put most of them there. The mourners blankly stared, silent, no smiles— unusual for Vietnamese.
Tolbert and Evans stood in silence, the scene only added to their morbid feelings of guilt. Staring down at one small concrete marker on the fresh mound of dirt, Billy Evans spoke quietly.
“I’m still here...because of him,” he said softly. “I wish I could’ve done more for him.”
Tolbert, tongue-tied, unsure of what to say, kept his mouth shut and eyes down, shifting self-consciously.
“Jim, I just can’t shake the guilt of being...on this side of the dirt. That little sonofabitch died for me. He...didn’t have to...do that.” Evans looked up. “Ya know?”
Billy, weak from wounds received on a recent operation, had been recuperating in Nha Trang at the old CIA safe house, House 22. He’d come by to see his old friend, to ask him to visit the cemetery with him. Tolbert hadn’t really wanted to go near the damned place, but...well, Stick was his friend. Friends do strange things for each other, but he really felt uncomfortable standing there. Hoping not to say anything wrong, Tolbert remained silent, listening to Stick softly cry. After he’d had a chance to think more on it, he came to the conclusion that his discomfort probably came from his own sense of guilt. It’s a common feeling, the guilt that comes with still being alive when a loved one has died.
Afterward, that evening at the club, they had a few drinks and Tolbert played some silly little songs designed to make Stick smile. He remembers Moore coming to his table, standing just long enough to hear his rendition of “Burning Barrel of Shit,” played to the tune of Johnnie Cash’s “Burning Ring of Fire.”
The detested commander listened until the song ended, turned, then walked away without a word. Tolbert said, “I guess my “Burning Barrel of Shit” didn’t impress him—or maybe he just didn’t like my singing. Hell, sometimes even I don’t like my singing.”
But there was more to it than just a few war ballads, as Tolbert learned the following morning. Soaking in the morning sun, he was sitting on the barracks steps, feeding scraps to a small stray dog that had wandered into the compound. Like some men of this war-scarred group, the pooch had apparently found a home with Delta. Before the little cur could snatch all of Tolbert’s bacon, Diaz, the unit clerk, hollered across the street.
“Tol, the Sergeant Major wants to see you. ASAP!”
He’d no sooner walked into the orderly room when Crash Whalen said curtly, “Pack your shit and hit the road.”
No fanfare, not even a “kiss-my-ass-goodbye,” Tolbert remembered with a small laugh. The only reason Whalen gave was that Delta had too many radio men above what they were authorized. Tolbert was well aware they had too many radio men; too many medics and too many intelligence NCOs, too. But at the moment that didn’t matter.
Whalen added, “The old man said if anyone had more than one tour in the Project, I was to get rid of him.”
Crash Whalen was not a big man, a few inches short of six feet, about 150 pounds soaking wet; all man, though—all soldier. Tolbert said, “I had great respect for him. It wasn’t his fault, anyway. He was just doing his job. He hadn’t made the decision. We both knew who had.”
Years earlier, Whalen had come to Special Forces from a conventional airborne unit. His salt and pepper hair let folks know he’d been around; he was well-liked throughout the SF community and Tolbert counted him as a friend. He could tell how difficult this was for Whalen, and how uncomfortable he felt. Tolbert didn’t press the issue. He’d seen others let go; this was how it was done in a Special Forces unit. “Pack your shit and hit the road”; nothing subtle about it.
As Tolbert strode from the compound, the stray dog followed along. He finally chased the mutt back; no need for both of them to be fired. No goodbyes—just pack up and move out; he never liked goodbyes anyway. He passed the spot where he and Ed Coffey had sat, paused as he remembered An Loa and Coffey’s memorial service; too few words said about such a fine soldier.
As he passed through the gate, he returned the guard’s salute, pausing to observe him. Since Moore took command, the Nung guards wore freshly pressed uniforms, spit-shinned boots and painted helmets; their image more in line with garrison-based Cavalry soldiers than assault troops. Maybe this was the beginning of the end after all.
“What will that asshole do next?” he thought, shaking his head. Shouldering his duffle bag, he marched off, thinking of how hard it was to capture what once was. He enjoyed his first two tours with Delta, and it was his love for those guys that made him sign on for a third. They were on their own now—they’d just have to get along wit
hout him. He silently wished them luck.
* * * * * *
Tolbert was the second Delta man to be fired by Moore—there would be others. Collective memories recall that before LTC Robert Moore left Project Delta, he managed to dismiss a few others; some, experienced operatives and arguably the world’s finest combat recon men. Because their skills were in such great demand, men who left the projects for any reason were immediately recruited; other classified SF projects and A-teams were always short experienced personnel. Others chose to remain on Special Forces A and B Detachments, while some returned to conventional units. After Tolbert left, Moore also fired Diaz, the unit clerk. Whalen stayed on to serve until Project Delta closed in 1970. Tolbert found a new home with another Special Forces project. Many with whom he served, “Bata Boot” Bennett, Doc Simpson, Stick Evans, Crash Whalen and Sweet Peter Perkins, have all now reported to the Big First Sergeant upstairs—and someone said Stanfield’s Nungs ate the dog.42
James Tolbert passed on 10 August 2005. Retired from active duty after twenty years of service, he continued to serve his nation as a civil servant. His songs can be found on the Project Delta website and his Delta brothers still toast him at their annual reunions; perhaps the Big First Sergeant upstairs enjoys a mellow country ballad, too.
42 Jim Tolbert. “The Firing,” http://projectdelta.net/firing_story.htm.
TWENTY-THREE
Leave No Man Behind
THE 81ST AIRBORNE RANGER ADVISORS WERE an important part of Delta’s team. In January 1968, SSG Tom Schultz was assigned to a recon team as the FNG, and on his first operation the team discovered he had a serious problem; he talked in his sleep—loudly! This certainly was not a good thing for a Recon man inside enemy controlled territory. In every other respect he was a fine addition to Recon; so, they tried everything they could think of to overcome his problem. A gag, mouth braces—nothing worked. Obviously this shortcoming detracted from his recon fitness and Schultz, too capable to simply release, was reassigned as an advisor to one of the Ranger companies.
The Rangers had several missions: search and destroy operations; engage and destroy an enemy unit after recon teams reported it; and rescue recon teams in trouble. Due to the inherent clandestine nature of the teams, the latter happened quite frequently. The teams had plenty of guts, but relatively little firepower sufficient to overcome a larger enemy force. In late spring, Schultz’s company was alerted. They would be inserted into the I Corps highlands as a reaction force to assist a troubled team operating out of Hue-Phu Bai, as part of Operation Delta Junction. Sergeant First Class Jerry L. Nelson and SSG Alfred W. Drapeau, two Delta Recon personnel Schultz knew quite well, were on the beleaguered team.
Because of other on-going missions, the 281st AHC lacked enough Huey helicopters to transport the full contingency of Rangers. To preclude multiple lifts into a potentially hot LZ, the unit’s S3 Officer requested several large Marine CH-46 troop-carrier helicopters to assist them in the insertion. The 281st AHC was assigned to Project Delta and had trained with them; these guys shared the Delta brotherhood. Bravery and dedication characterized these fine pilots as they risked their lives to retrieve teams or to insert desperately needed reaction forces.
To the contrary, the Marine pilots were strangers, with no special affiliation to the men on the ground, other than the fact that they all were Americans. It wasn’t as if they would intentionally place Delta elements at risk, only that they might not go “the extra mile,” as the 281st AHC frequently did. Concerned they’d be using Marine helicopters on this mission, Schultz instructed the Rangers to take all M60 machineguns and place them on the relatively few available 281st Hueys. That decision would prove to be a wise one. Nelson and Drapeau’s team were pinned on the western slope of a large hill mass; the plan was to insert the Rangers on the east, to preclude them from coming under the same direct enemy fire as Nelson’s team.
Apparently, the Viet Cong had anticipated this strategy. As the helicopters approached the LZ they began to receive moderate fire, which dramatically increased as they drew nearer. While all the 281st helicopters continued steadily on course, hovering and discharging their cargo of Rangers under hostile fire, the Marine’s CH-46 choppers broke off, turned around and left—with all their Rangers still on board! This turn of events left Schultz less than half strength to engage a large, determined enemy force. Full darkness set in and worse, instead of sixty Rangers, Schultz had less than forty. The remainder of his men sat on Marine helicopters at the Hue-Phu Bai airstrip. Nelson’s recon team reported that a VC company of about 100 men were chasing them.
The depleted Ranger force under Schultz gingerly moved up the mountainside, in total darkness, constantly in radio contact with the recon team. By midnight, they knew the two units must be getting close to one another, fearful they might have an encounter with their own men. Schultz decided he’d hold up, linking up after daylight. At first light, the recon team walked out of the jungle. Drapeau walked right up to Schultz and planted a big wet kiss on his forehead.
“Man, am I glad to see you—you sweet Mother!”
Schultz reported back to the FOB; they’d made contact with their team and were ready for pick up. Since he had only forty men left, he located a three-ship LZ and gave its coordinates. Then he heard some incredible news: he’d been informed his delayed Rangers were enroute as they spoke—on Marine choppers— heading for the same LZ as the previous day. This was not good news! It went against every principle they lived—or died by. He was incensed they’d even consider using the same LZ.
“Didn’t you tell those assholes we came under some serious fire yesterday when we landed?” he said angrily.
“Yep, but that’s their plan. We’ll see you in thirty minutes...out.”
Upon reaching the designated LZ, Schultz put out a hasty defensive perimeter as security for the in-bound choppers, and his Rangers immediately came under automatic fire from the tree line, a mere hundred yards away. Schultz called for air support; a Navy A-4 instantly responded. The Navy fighter came in close, dropping a white phosphorous (WP) bomb, right on target—or as the troops phonetically coined WP, “Willy Peter,” adding humor to the following account:
Having been chased constantly for three days, the recon team, nearing exhaustion, lay inside the Ranger’s defensive perimeter running around the LZ, waiting for the arrival of their promised extraction chopper. During their overnight escape, the crotch seam on Jerry Nelson’s tiger fatigues had split wide-open. Since underwear tends to get wet when moving through the jungle and can ball up, often resulting in skin irritation, Jerry wasn’t wearing drawers. This was not unusual; some Recon men preferred not to wear skivvies, or socks, for that matter. (A mighty peculiar breed, some have admitted to dumping sand in their jungle boots when not in the field to toughen their feet.) So, here was Jerry, lying in the grass, pretty much exposed to the world, when small flecks of the “Willy Peter” breezed by and landed squarely on his bare crotch—the quiet was instantly shattered. Yelling a string of profanities, he popped up and hopped about while beating at his smoldering groin. When that technique failed, the medic poured water over the afflicted area. Even that didn’t work too well, and his dance tempo increased, fueled by sage advice shouted from on-lookers. “Pack it in mud!” “Wave it in the air!”
“Fire discipline went to hell in a hand basket,” Schultz said. “Those exhausted Rangers began to roll around, laughing and pointing until their tears streamed, nearly washing off their camouflage paint. They shouted out hilarious advice to Trung Se (Sergeant) Nelson, pounded each other on the back and generally enjoyed the entire spectacle. I’ll tell you what—a VC squad could’ve walked in, gathered up all our weapons and left without a shot being fired, and we couldn’t have done a damned thing to prevent it.”
* * * * * *
Like the movements of a finely-tuned Rolex, Project Delta was an intricate organization of many components: the Commander, Sergeant Major and headquarters staff, which remained at e
ither the FOB or the Delta compound in Nha Trang to resource and support the units in the field; the talented recon teams; the death-defying Slicks and gunship helicopter crews; the brave and dedicated Air Force FACs and support personnel assigned to Delta; the fearless Battle Damage Assessment unit of Nung mercenaries, both feared and admired; Montagnard Road Runners; and the tough 81st Airborne Ranger Battalion, their main reaction force.
As tough and dedicated as any Recon man, American advisors served with the 81st Rangers, frequently rotating among the Ranger Battalion, BDA Company, Road Runner and recon teams. Prior to the Tet Offensive in January 1968, other unit commanders had hardly heard of the battle-hardened 81st Airborne Rangers, yet afterwards, they were highly sought after.
Comparable to their counterparts within the American airborne divisions, the 81st Rangers had been trained as light infantry assault outfits, with emphasis on speed, daring maneuvers, intense small arms fire and violent assaults. During the Tet Offensive the Communists occupied Hue for more than a month, stubbornly battling Marine and ARVN units, while being stalked and killed in great numbers. Concurrently, the Delta Recon teams and 81st Ranger units were being launched into the A Shau Valley and deployed along the Vietnam-Laotian border, not only to cut off NVA reinforcements in Hue, but to hasten the retreat of enemy forces fighting there. Delta Recon teams had picked up intelligence indicating a large food and ammunition convoy from Laos was headed to re-supply VC and NVA troops in Hue, potentially readying for a second push to secure Hue from the Americans. Delta Operations Samurai I, II and III were the Allied efforts to stop the offensive in its tracks. Delta’s mission for the 81st Rangers was to ambush and destroy the re-supply convoys.
