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

by Morris Ray

  - George Washington

  44 Jim Morris. “Interview with the Big ‘Un,” Part 3.

  45 Jim Tolbert. “Shane Soldato,” http://projectdelta.net/soldato_story.htm.

  Afterword

  I RETURNED TO VIETNAM IN THE WINTER OF 2005, essentially to research material for this book, but perhaps also to search for the reason behind the price paid for it all. I primarily visited Hue, Marble Mountain at Da Nang and Saigon (I still refuse to call it Ho Chi Minh City). My pilgrimage took me near the Laotian border, to the old Special Forces camps at Khe Sanh and Lang Vey, which was a far more difficult journey than I presumed it would be, and ultimately led me to cancel trips to the Cu Chi Tunnels, Ba To and the A Shau Valley where I’d lost some good friends and fine people. I wisely decided that further exploration of experiences that dwelled too deeply into my psychic and emotional memory bank should be put off until some future date.

  I visited the destroyed enemy tank remains in the middle of Camp Khe Sanh, and saw the various U.S. aircraft that had been downed around the camp during the Communist siege in 1968 and 1969. At the entrance to the old camp, government sponsored vendors hawk books that have rewritten history of the battle for Khe Sanh, portraying their glorious victory over the vilified Special Forces and Marine personnel defending in and around the famous site. For all their propaganda, not one word was written about the more than 100,000 Viet Cong and NVA casualties they suffered against the much smaller American forces gallantly defending it. Some glorious victory, huh?

  Various combat paraphernalia left over from one of the largest battles of the Vietnam War are proudly displayed, along with carefully staged scenes showing the “conquerors” at their best. On display are selective photos of the “cowardly Americans” who, with their mere force of 6,000 troops, held off five crack divisions of North Vietnam’s best for 170 days in the most savage fighting of the war. Nothing indicated how this small force decimated three of their fine divisions in the process—my words, not theirs. History, it seems, is still written by the victors—nothing new there. If we wanted to change the way their history portrays the American soldier’s efforts during that conflict, our politicians should have tried harder to win. Lord knows our troops did everything expected of them.

  In December 2002, retired and ailing, General Bui Tin, the North Vietnamese Army colonel who had taken the South Vietnamese’s unconditional surrender in Saigon on 30 April 1975, held a short press conference in Paris, France. He said that the 1968 Tet Offensive by the North had been a disastrous mistake, an event during which the Viet Cong and the NVA were nearly wiped out as an effective fighting force. According to Bui Tin, the North’s defeat had been so complete during Tet that Hanoi’s government had considered pulling completely out of the South. He mentioned it had only been because of the famous photograph of Jane Fonda visiting Hanoi and condemning the American soldiers, and Nixon, declaring he would immediately begin to pull U.S. troops out the following month, that had made them hang on a little longer—thereby outlasting the Americans and winning the war.

  All water under the bridge.

  I have the pleasure of knowing a few fine families in Vietnam, and for the most part, they made the recent trip very enjoyable for me and my wife. Progress is evident everywhere. New buildings are going up, especially in Saigon, built mostly by the People’s Republic of China and large Japanese or foreign companies. As with other global Communist endeavors, after the politicos got tired of the starving masses, their government seems to have discovered capitalism. While few American companies have taken up residency at this date, it’s clear the government is rapidly moving further from traditional Communism and closer toward our capitalistic way of life. There is a hunger for American goods and foreign participation in every aspect of their fledging markets. It isn’t hard to imagine Vietnam in a few short years as another Korea, Hong Kong or Japan—perhaps in the long run, we won after all.

  Almost everyone in the country has a motorbike—they all seemed to be traveling on my street, and all at the same time. A smattering of modern shopping malls are wedged between tiny businesses where owners sell their wares, live and socialize on the sidewalks. Many of the new stores rival a Macy’s or a Saks, complete with five-star hotels in close proximity. Although many Westerners can be seen shopping there, amazingly, the majority are Vietnamese, an indication of just how well the economy is doing—at least, for some. The local folks point with great pride to the French-constructed Notre Dame Cathedral, restored to all its glory—the only positive remark I heard about the French during my entire visit. While most didn’t actually say they don’t like the French, every time the subject came up, their faces grimaced as though they’d swallowed a nasty bug. I also discovered that young people can actually go to college to get a degree in tourism. Times are changing.

  The red flag with its immense yellow star hangs profusely, as though it is required decor, and billboard masses depict the ultimate symbol of Communism: the obligatory hammer and sickle. Statues and portraits of their lovable Uncle Ho assault the senses at every round-a-bout and corner sidewalk and even with new construction, the People’s Communist Committee buildings are among the best and most modern.

  Although change is everywhere, it’s said, “Some things never change.” So despite all the progress, what I remember most hasn’t changed much from those days when a man’s life wasn’t worth much— except maybe to his buddies. The poor, deformed and hopeless are still there, begging on the streets. Hungry old women sell lottery tickets eighteen hours a day for pennies, while children hawk postcards or gum to Westerners, who hurry past in an effort to escape their pitiful plight. Despite the Communist government’s admonishment to not reward such deplorable activities, I would nonetheless, albeit guilt-laden, slip them a few VN Dong when the opportunity arose. Still, I never did so without wondering if the amputee scooting along on the ground had lost his limbs in the service of the South Vietnamese Government, or as a Viet Cong soldier. In the end, I guess it really doesn’t matter all that much.

  It was plain to see that the South Vietnamese people still love Americans. Everywhere I traveled in-country I was greeted with warm smiles and genuine hospitality. Yes, the bright smiles are still there, despite what they’ve endured, yet I also found a deep appreciation (from mostly the older folks) for what it cost the American soldier. They wanted to shake my hand, ask if I had been there during the war, and discovering that I had, their old eyes would suddenly grow moist. They seemed more reluctant to release my hand. While the friendliness and affection of the Vietnamese people will stay with me forever, I still harbor a myriad of mixed and confused feelings.

  I only hope the good memories will be enough to overcome the raw emotion I felt when I came across the battered military ID card that’d been taken off the body of some GI during the battle for Khe Sanh; it was on display in a museum glass case for the whole world to see. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the name for fear it might be someone I knew. If ever before I’d questioned what an American life had been worth to the Vietnamese people, the gut-wrenching answer came to me in the stack of GI dog tags for sale on a Saigon street vendor table— $5.00 each.

  Reflections of a Delta Recon Man46

  “I will always remember . . .

  “...when we ran out of water, and nearly died from thirst, because none could be found in the area. Then a FAC flew over and dropped a six-pack of Cokes to us. All but two busted, but that kept us going until we found water outside the AO.

  “...long hours and long days on dangerous missions inside the enemy’s actual defenses, unable to speak for fear of being heard— always alert. Restless, our eyes darted constantly; our sweaty hands gripped plastic rifle butts. We were always at the ready, senses highly tuned, stressed to the limit until extraction time finally rolled around— then the letdown, the drinking, the silent closeness of men who’d learned to communicate without words, far better than most who use language.

  “...times when the only
water available was a shallow, unappetizing pool of green slime that every animal in the area used as a watering hole and a shithouse. Choking back reluctance, we’d scraped the slime aside to fill a canteen, because it might be the last water you’d see for days. Knowing that iodine tablets were useless in this case, clenching our teeth to strain the lumps and grass out, closing our eyes—drinking.

  “...taking a new man out for the first time and have him shake you all night, telling you that he’s hearing sounds all around your position. Did you do that too, on your first trip into Indian country?

  “...inserting at last light, doing everything right, but then hearing strange noises all around on the ground and in the trees; discovering you’d slept with a community of monkeys that hoped to join your patrol.

  “...the times when no matter how hard you tried, last light of the day caught you in a place where you didn’t want to be, so you slept straddling a tree-trunk to keep from rolling down a steep mountainside or into a raging river below.

  “...the nights when heavy rain started right at dusk and everything you owned got soaked. Then sitting on your rucksack all night to stay out of the pooling water, while watching leeches sense warm blood, moving in on the body heat. Leech repellent was never an option; it’d leave a water-slick in the rain, or when crossing the next stream, the enemy might see it. So it wasn’t used much—except maybe to dash under your arms and between your legs; it blocked the pores and helped keep you a little warmer on cold, rain-driven nights.

  “...how it was when a storm hit in the middle of the night, the rain poured down your collar by the bucket-full, bolts of lightening continuously striking the ground all around like mortar fire, lifting us at least a foot off the ground, terrifying in its unrelenting power.

  “...the clear cloudless nights when the ground shook and an unrealistic rumble echoed through the valley. Had someone forgotten to mention a B-52 bomb strike in your area? Would the close-in bombs fall short and take out your entire patrol?

  “...the countless hours waiting for the weather to clear sufficiently for insertion. Sitting in the recon tent playing pinochle, poker or Monopoly, eating dehydrated shrimp scrounged from the Marine supply tent.

  “...the parachute water jumps into Cam Ranh Bay or the South China Sea with Colonel “Splash” Kelly.

  “...raising ducks to supplement the Nung’s dehydrated food supply.

  “...fishing in the South China Sea with C-4 and hand grenades.

  “...the gigantic T-bone steaks and cold beer at the end of each mission.

  “...the friendships.

  “...taking an old jeep downtown and leaving it in place of the new one, having picked it up from some unsuspecting Marine. And then being chased by the MPs who never knew it was only a game, while the little Filipinos quickly painted a new B-52 Delta bumper number on it. That was fine until the 5th Group Commander decided to conduct an inventory of Delta’s assets—then there was hell to pay. Still nobody got into trouble.

  “...hunting water buffalo, elephant and deer. Then we’d dry the meat to make a form of jerky to brighten up the combat rations a little.

  “...infiltrating on a dirt airstrip or grassy LZ with bullets tearing through the floor and the thin skin of your aircraft.

  “...exfiltrating from a dirt airstrip or grassy LZ with bullets tearing through the floor and the thin skin of your aircraft.

  “...the trips into the Valley of Death—the An Loa, the A Shau, Khe Sanh, Tra Bong, or a hundred other places with such names. Always announced by rocket fire and automatic weapons fire that’d cut choppers and their defenseless passengers in half.

  “...the sadness of learning that a fellow soldier had been killed, was missing in action or simply shot all to hell.

  “...the elation at the end of a mission, that you were still alive after a ferocious firefight and after days of running from a determined enemy. The guilt of still being alive after losing one or more of your Delta Recon team.

  “...moving through the jungle during a vicious rain storm because the noise covered the sound of movement; and because no one else was crazy enough to do it—not even the enemy.

  “...and, oh so many more.

  46 Gary Nichols provided the basics for “I Will Always Remember.” Other Project Delta veterans modified it by adding a few personal remembrances.

  Delta Recon

  By Gary Nichols

  I make my way, it’s just twilight,

  with movements slow, not to excite.

  For life that dwells up in the trees,

  might give away where I might be.

  Each step deliberate, as if in pain,

  a day of travel, so short the gain.

  I take of food but once a day,

  enough so strength won’t slip away;

  A cough, a sneeze, soft voices slurred,

  this place, that noise, I shouldn’t have heard.

  My movement stops as muscles freeze,

  I slowly hunker to my knees.

  My eyes are strained, my senses keen,

  listening for what can’t be seen.

  The hunt is on, I slowly rise,

  for who sees first, the other dies.

  Adrenaline rush, the taste of fear,

  with life at stake, I check to rear.

  A startled face, I squeeze a burst,

  my ace of trump, I saw him first.

  And in this place that few men know,

  the smell of death on soft winds blow.

  This time good luck, no need to run,

  until next time my work is done.

  The Wall

  By D.J. Taylor

  WHEN A VIETNAM VETERAN VISITS THE Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C., he is in for an emotional experience that he may not immediately understand. Many veterans, no matter how often they visit, are overcome with feelings of loss, hopelessness or grief that they may not have ever felt before. Some believe that this is a result of the symbolism purposely built into this memorial, and before his first visit, a Vietnam Veteran should be aware of this.

  The Vietnam War Memorial was built like no other in the history of warfare. Normally, a grateful nation builds War Memorials to honor the participants, both living and dead, who participated in the conflict. These monuments have usually been designed to promote an uplifting feeling of fulfillment and accomplishment in those veterans who come to visit, but a Vietnam Veteran will find none of this at the Vietnam Memorial. Instead, he will discover that someone has simply taken his dead comrades’ names, written them on a black rock and laid this rock at the bottom of a hole in the ground.

  Unlike the Marine Corps War Memorial in Arlington, VA that uses as a theme a single uplifting incident of glory that all veterans can feel a part of and share in, the Vietnam War Memorial focuses on the dead and nothing else. At the Marine Corps War Memorial, one will see visiting veterans, old and young, with pride on their faces, their families in tow, and all remembering the dead as the dead would want to be remembered. When the families of the dead visit this beautiful memorial built on a hill overlooking the Nation’s Capitol, they cannot help but feel proud of their fallen loved ones and of the country for which they died.

  At the Vietnam War Memorial, one will see a completely different mood controlling the veterans and their families. They move slowly, speak in hushed tones and visible grief is in their faces. Unshaven and unkempt veterans loiter about. Some are clothed in parts and pieces of ragged, old, camouflaged uniforms and seem trapped in a time warp that keeps them eternally reliving unholy places and times that they should have long ago put behind themselves.

  This memorial was purposefully designed and built to impart these feelings of naked grief and shame on its visitors, and it was to call attention to what the designer and promoters felt were the useless, meaningless and needless deaths of those that died in the Vietnam War.

  Historians will one day put the Vietnam War into historical perspective, and they will recognize Vietnam for what it w
as: just one battle in the forty-year “Cold War” with the Soviet Union. It was a battle that contained the spread of Communism in South East Asia for over a decade.

  This ten-year containment provided time to bolster the capabilities of Vietnam’s neighbors to resist Communist aggression, and because of this, the “Domino Effect” did not take place when Vietnam finally fell. For the bankrupting philosophy of Communism to survive, it needed to expand and feed off the economies that it absorbed. For more than forty years, our country provided men and materiel to any country that needed assistance to resist Communist annexation. This “containment” policy worked, the Soviet Union collapsed, and freedom was secured for another generation of Americans.

  The Americans who died in Vietnam did not die in vain, and the negative symbolism depicted in the Vietnam War Memorial will one day be recognized. There will come a day when the American people will look at that black rock in the bottom of a hole and see it for what it depicts: an open grave with a blackened corpse lying at the bottom. Then, our country will surely fill that open grave, give those patriots a proper funeral and erect on that site a memorial befitting of their sacrifice.