by Morris Ray
Chester Howard, a member of that trio, is a tough Texas cowboy who loves the outdoors. He grew up riding bulls and bareback broncos at rodeo events. Upon arriving in Vietnam, he first attended Recondo School and then reported in July 1969 to SGM Whalen at Project Delta. He readily admitted to having served with many icons of the Special Operations community. He ran recon missions successfully on several teams, eventually as a One Zero, leading a team of his own. He accompanied Nungs on dangerous reaction force missions, conducted “search and destroy” operations, logged hours in a FAC aircraft and had been the “belly man” on insertion and extraction missions under fire on more than one occasion. Involved in battles with both the Viet Cong and the NVA, and pursued vigorously by them, his harrowing adventures were “pretty much the norm for a Delta Recon man.”
He claims never to have done anything particularly heroic—just the job for which he’d been trained. But, he admitted, “I worked on a daily basis with men I consider to be real American heroes.” Still, his service record reflects several awards for acts of bravery, to include a Bronze Star for valor.
Howard served one year with Delta, but remarked he believed the sinew that held the Project together was from the men who had stayed three to five years, many staying until the war was over. Those were veterans such as SGM Harry “Crash” Whalen, once the sole survivor of a SOG recon team. Whalen, much like “Doc” Simpson, had been a seasoned Recon man who’d done it all. They’d watched over the others, fearing no rank or position when it came to protecting their guys. They never knowingly did anything to needlessly jeopardize a fellow soldier’s life. Men like those two were respected, feared and revered by NCO and officer alike.
By the time Howard arrived in 1969, many men already had reputations as living legends: Alton “Moose” Monroe, Joe Alderman, Andre “Saint” St. Laurent, James “Delta Jay” Graves and Donald “DJ” Taylor. These names are still repeated often. Those who returned year after year, their time punctuated with only a short leave back home, essentially spent their youth in-country. Their family and friends were Project Delta, and that’s where they wanted to be. They had the expertise to train the new volunteers to become One Ones and One Zeros in the evolving combat recon business. They were the glue that held Delta together.
“Joe Alderman was a ‘soldier’s soldier.’ I never met a man who didn’tlike him,” Howard recalled. “He got his masters degree while still in the service—a very smart fellow.”
D.J. Taylor also praised Alderman. “If you looked closely on the right side of Alderman’s head, even though he wore his hair a little longer to hide it, you’d notice a large scar. The story about that scar went like this:
“Joe’s recon team had made contact with a large Viet Cong unit. The team sustained casualties but wouldn’t leave them, so they stayed and fought to the death, eventually being overrun. Although Joe and his teammates lay either badly wounded or dead, the Viet Cong shot them all in the head one more time to be sure, stripped them of their weapons and gear and left them for dead. After several days, a platoon from the BDA Company found them. They were all being zipped up in body bags when one of the Nungs asked, ‘Why is it? All the Vietnamese are bloated, stink and the maggots eat them, but one American don’t stink. I don’t understand.’
“Unzipping the body bag, they checked him again and discovered Joe was still alive! This story was repeated from several reliable sources, but I never asked Joe about it; figured he didn’t want to talk about it anyway.”
Joe Alderman completed seven years in a combat environment, more than twenty years in U.S. Army Special Forces and was a 1996 inductee into the Ranger Hall of Fame along with other famous Rangers, such as Colonel Darby. You had to have done something pretty spectacular to be an inductee.
“The strange thing,” Howard recalls, “the ‘old guys,’ like Alderman and Doc Simpson weren’t much older than the rest of us. They’d just seen more, a lot more.”
Howard remembers that being in Project Delta was hard work; trips into the hole were extremely stressful, resulting in body wear-and-tear. After several years, he realized someone in the Delta leadership chain must have had their head screwed on right when they established internal policies. The “action guys” were treated as gladiators or royalty during “stand-down.” In the hole, they’d sustain themselves for days with only a daily can of fruit or meat, a little rice, and water—when they could find it. Returning, they would immediately be treated to a huge steak, baked potato, fresh salad—and of course, cold beer.
After a month in the field, they frequently received a three-day pass for any in-country destination of their choice. Traveling sans beret and in a sterile uniform, their short CAR-15 automatic weapons and lack of insignia still gave them away. Considered “spooks” by nearly everyone (a term given to CIA and intelligence operatives), they were given a wide berth. That arrangement suited most. Even if passes weren’t available, they still could look forward to stand-down, which at times could be more adventurous than combat. They worked hard, played hard and almost anything went during stand-down; some guys didn’t leave the Delta Club for days, running a drinking marathon straight through until called upon again. Why leave? After all, there was plenty of great food and it was the finest club in Vietnam.
******
Before a team infiltrated, Recon members gathered, wished them luck and saw them off. It was expected. When teams made enemy contact in some god-forsaken location, a siren went off back at the FOB, the Huey’s began to warm up, and medics, Nungs and Recon men all scurried to the pads, climbing aboard. No order was given; none was necessary.
******
Chester Howard returned to the States after his tour with Delta. Graduating from Texas A&M in 1972, he resides in Houston where he continues a career as a real estate property tax consultant.
JayGraves (center) fires the launcher as Chester Howard (right) handles the belt. Although this weapon tended to jam and was more fun than practical, there is no doubt concerning the psychological effect it had on the enemy. SFC Lee Coalson (with hat) assists. (Photo courtesy of Maurice Brakeman)
TWENTY-SIX
The Art of War: The Nung
THE NUNG, A MINORITY GROUP OF ETHNIC CHINESE ancestry, have been a subject of debate among anthropologists for years. Who are they and where did they come from? Because China once ruled for centuries what is now known as Vietnam, it is assumed that the Nung were either left over from that era or the descendents of mercenaries, who, prior to 939 A.D., settled and promulgated in Vietnam. Samples of Chinese calligraphy, religion and agricultural practices seem to support this theory best.43
For centuries, the Nung, famous for their bravery and ferocity in combat, have been employed by those in power as royal bodyguards, assassins and mercenaries. Special Forces, understanding early on the importance of their capabilities, sought out these weathered warriors and engaged them for their unique skills. While three companies of Nung were used by the 5th Special Forces Group Headquarters as guards, the BDA Company was seldom used for anything other than the most dangerous situations where the Delta Commander felt he needed an extension of power and the extra punch that only 105 seasoned, heavily-armed mercenary soldiers “with an attitude” could deliver. Those who worked with Nungs for the term of Project Delta held them in high esteem. Some of the American NCOs who led Delta’s Nungs included Art Garcia, Tom Thompson, Sammy Hernandez, Jerry Nelson and Michael Stanfield.
Arthur F. Garcia served with the Nungs longer than most, and with great distinction; typical of the type of NCO who gravitated to that job. The son of Texas migrant workers, Garcia was third in a family of ten children. He quit school at the age of nine and left home seeking adventure. At the ripe age of seventeen, in 1957, a judge in Fresno, California highly recommended that he volunteer for the Army. Since the judge hadn’t advised him when he could come home, the Army finally had to put him out—thirty years later. He continued to volunteer through the years, initially with paratroopers, because
he heard they paid an extra $55 per month for jump pay. After several years with the 101st and 82nd Airborne Divisions, and seeking more adventure, in 1963 he volunteered to wear the Green Beret. When SOG denied his extension in Vietnam for a third year, he heard that three of his closest friends had been killed in a classified project called Project Delta. Garcia figured that was the place for him, and immediately volunteered. It was with Delta that he finally found his home— and all the adventure he could ever hope for.
Bill Fuller was Delta’s SGM when Garcia arrived; SGM Whalen took his place shortly thereafter. Garcia recalls “Crash” Whalen was in a league all his own—a tough, no nonsense SOB they all loved because he took care of his guys. Doc Simpson was the Recon Section leader, while Dave Ryder ran the 81st Airborne Ranger Battalion and Gary Nichols was boss of the Road Runners. Jerry Nelson was in charge of the BDA Company when Garcia took the job, and he inherited Tommy Johnson as his assistant. He discovered that Nelson and Johnson had done a superb job of organizing and training the BDA. Garcia had only praise for all the guys he worked with in the BDA Company, saying, “There wasn’t a loser in the entire bunch.”
While Garcia ran the Nungs, all the recon teams had to do was call and he’d be there, regardless of the circumstances. Chester Howard reinforced that, saying, “The BDA Nungs were always managed by true professionals. Although a number of other men led the Nungs through the years, it was while SFC Arthur Garcia was in charge that he made his mark in Delta history. When a team made enemy contact, Art and his Nungs were always first to enter the AO, link-up with the besieged team and help them break contact. And they came shooting. I considered it a great honor just to be on the ground with them, and after serving on a recon team with one other American and four Vietnamese, I felt very secure with Art and his twenty-eight, armed-to-the-teeth Chinese mercenaries.”
In August 1968, Delta deployed to an FOB at Quan Loi to support the 1st Infantry Division. The “Big Red One” had lost the glorious 7th North Vietnamese Army and wanted Delta to find them. On 2 September 1968, Garcia was preparing to leave for Las Vegas on thirty days R&R. The 7th NVA Division and Recon were from his thoughts. He had already packed his “Mexican Samsonite,” an old C-ration box with a set of clothing and one pair of shoes, held tightly together with green “hundred-mile-an-hour” tape and twine. “Friends and movie stars” were waiting in Vegas for him, and he just couldn’t wait to get there. The afternoon he was due to depart, Crash Whalen received a call from Jerry Nelson. He was somewhere in the valley—and in a jam. Nelson had been on a POW snatch and wanted Garcia to bring him a new radio. His old one had been “dinged up” during infiltration. Whalen wasn’t the kind to hesitate to ask someone to give up his R&R, to go back into the hole.
Garcia never even glanced up from his packing. “Call him back, and tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine,” he said. Las Vegas was waiting; he figured there were plenty of other guys around who could take the radio to Nelson.
Whalen was adamant. “Can’t do that. Nelson has to snatch a prisoner, and he specifically stated he wants you there.”
Garcia sighed, stared longingly out his window for about half a minute, and then handed Whalen his sorry, taped-up, tied-together-with-string, piece of luggage. “There’s some money in here. If I don’t come back, use it to get the guys drunk.”
Within hours he was climbing down a rope ladder into a bomb crater. Two days later, after being hoisted out by McGuire Rig, the 7th North Vietnamese Army had been found.
On 8 December 1968, Garcia was lying flat on a plywood table as one of Delta’s finest medics, Dennis McVey, meticulously dug pieces of shrapnel from his belly. A radio transmission had come in and the camp siren blasted its alert. A VN recon leader was missing and the team was in serious trouble. Another American ran past, pulling on his web gear and shouting that the Nungs were on the move. The BDA was getting ready to move out—but they weren’t leaving without him. Garcia rolled off the table and ran to get his gear as McVey yelled after him, “Art, I didn’t finish stitching that. Be careful or your guts are going to fall out!”
After they returned, having successfully rescued the beleaguered team, Rick Conway, who’d been a “straphanger” on the mission, told Garcia, “Art, I’m never going out with you again. You’re crazy!”
Garcia thought he might be kidding. He headed out to see McVey and finish getting stitched up from his last trip.
Whalen disapproved Garcia’s final extension with Delta. Instead of returning to the States, however, he went on to advise the Vietnamese 30th Ranger Battalion, and later ran SOG recon missions until the end of the war. He asked Whalen years afterward why his extension had been disapproved. Whalen simply said, “Why, you crazy SOB, I was just trying to keep you alive!”
* * * * * *
Sergeant First Class Garcia was awarded five Bronze Stars and the Army Commendation Medal for valor; many of the medals were received while serving as Senior NCO of Delta’s BDA Company. Numerous Letters of Commendation are in his file attesting to his courage, professionalism and exemplary leadership. He went on to serve as Command Sergeant Major for 1st Special Forces Group, Airborne, Fort Lewis, Washington, from 1983 until he retired in 1986.
43 Lebar, Hickey and Musgrave. “Ethnic Groups of Mainland Southeast Asia,” 236-238.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Honest, Sir...I Saw Trucks!”
OF ALL THE UNEMPLOYED COMEDIANS SERVING In the Army, Roy “Squirrel” Sprouse had to be the funniest man of the lot. He’d do anything for a laugh. Born and raised in Chattanooga, Tennessee, his two half-brothers and a sister tried to keep tabs on him while he was growing up—a full-time job at best. Slight of build, with reddish hair and a toothy overbite, he was often mistaken for less than the brave and capable soldier he was. He met the world head-on with determination, skill, integrity and a self-depreciating humor that became his trademark.
To hear Sprouse tell it, his physical appearance had been the result of being born third in a set of triplets (not true) and being forced to nurse his daddy (this is probably not true either.) At the age of sixteen, he sought travel and adventure, and coerced his aunt into forging his mother’s name so he could enlist in the Army. His career spanned twenty-two years; with stints in both airborne divisions and in nearly all of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces Groups. He served in Project Delta from 1969-1970, on his third tour to Vietnam. As an Army instructor, his file shows that one post commander referred to him as, “The best instructor in the U.S. Army.” In 1962, he married Ginny Keesee, the love of his life, and they had two children.
Sprouse, an excellent marksman and recon man, earned a reputation as a skilled scrounger. He was known to impersonate senior officers and requisition pallets of beer, soda and steaks from rear area units. He once arrived in Mai Loc riding atop a load of PSP—steel runway planks—suspended below a flying crane, with the rationale, “We need at least one chopper pad with a little less dust.” Just convincing someone to give him all that PSP was remarkable, but at a time when there were only three of those awkward flying contraptions in the entire country, how he was ever able to commandeer one to deliver the PSP, was nothing less than a marvel.
One day, he marched into the Delta Club without a shirt, waving a piece of paper that proudly announced he’d just won the “Ugliest Man in the Army Contest.” During the ensuing round of congratulatory drinks, he confided to the rest of the guys that soon they’d see a big “change” in his appearance. That was because he’d just completed the Charles Atlas Body Building Course and had sent off a letter to Atlas, stating that having completed the course, it was now time for Atlas to send him some muscles.
Once on a roll, Sprouse was difficult to contain. He caused many a sore rib from taking spontaneous jabs at himself. Later that same evening in the club, he climbed onto Al Schwarcbher’s lap and they adlibbed a ventrilloquist routine (with Al playing Edger Bergan to Roy’s Charlie McCarthy) that brought the house down. He was all business in the field
, but on stand-down, he was a one-man USO show.
Al Schwarcbher remembers, “Roy had a face only a mother could love. He could make you laugh or cry, no matter what the circumstances. Many said he could’ve possibly been the ugliest Special Forces guy they’d ever met. Hell, Roy even said that!”
Regarding the night he and Sprouse did the ventrilloquist act, Al said this: “Everyone was slightly inebriated and the band was taking a break anyway, so Roy and I decided—what the hell—we’d liven things up a bit.
“On stage at the club, I acted the role of Edgar Bergen, and Roy would sit on my lap and be either Charlie [McCarthy] or Mortimer [Snerd]. I’d place my hand behind Roy’s shirt and we’d imitate the act, with me asking him a question, and while Roy moved his mouth and head to answer, I’d move my lips slightly to appear as if it was a poor job of throwing my voice. The guys loved it so much that we had many repeat performances. My one regret is we never taped at least one of those segments. I’m sure it’d still look pretty funny. God bless Roy Sprouse.”
