CHAPTER 12
The drone startled some of the Tigers camped along the river: Forward Air Control planes flying low, carrying out surveillance over the valley. Within minutes, the soldiers would know whether they would have to stay in the Song Ve. An empty village meant success. Based on the last two weeks, the men had little hope they would get out.
While the soldiers gathered around the radio to wait for their orders, Donald Wood turned around and walked to the edge of the river. He needed time to think. For a moment, he blocked out the noise. Wood dreaded another day but not because he feared losing his life. He feared that the Tigers would kill more civilians.
Wood’s team members knew to leave him alone when he went off by himself. It was no different at home in Fridley, when he would slip into his room and close the door, or even sneak out of the house in the rain and walk for miles. That was his way to clear his mind. When the high school football coach told him he was too small to play, he backed out of the gym, red-faced, and walked to the edge of town, refusing to go home until 10:00 that night. And when he did get to his home, he didn’t go into the house. Flushed with anger, he went directly to the garage and began lifting weights. That night he promised himself he would work out every night until he bulked up enough to play football. The next year, he made the team.
As a five-foot-nine, 160-pound halfback, Wood had tried to run over tacklers, instead of around them. He had never been a coward and he believed traversing the shortest distance between two points sometimes entailed the destruction of any obstacles in the way. Watching the water rush by, Wood came to the conclusion that he wasn’t going to let the Tigers run amok. He was going to challenge Hawkins at every turn, even if it meant physically restraining him. “I gotta stop this guy,” he told Carpenter. “It’s all gotta stop now.”
Wood reasoned that while Hawkins, Trout, Ybarra, Doyle, and Barnett had been killing villagers in their teams, not everyone had gone along. Even when Hawkins had ordered the entire platoon to open up on the farmers, Wood noticed that most of the newcomers didn’t raise their rifles. That proved to him the platoon could be salvaged. Wood made up his mind: he would save the soul of the Tigers.
As he joined the men huddled around the radio, the call came from battalion headquarters: the Tigers were pulling out. Several soldiers pumped their fists in the air, exhilarated over the prospect of heading back to Carentan.
Wood saw his chance. He would go back to Carentan and talk to his commanders. Surely they would understand his concerns and would support his efforts to get rid of Hawkins. Wood was a soldier who always believed in the adage that what goes on in the field stays there. There was no room in the Army for snitches. But he didn’t have any choice; it was his responsibility. Strangely enough, he felt a sense of relief. He jumped onto the chopper and scurried to the rear.
After jumping off the Huey, Wood headed to Lieutenant Naughton’s tent. At first, Naughton wasn’t around, but an hour later, wandering around the base, the men ran into each other. In confidence, Wood unloaded, saying he was disgusted at the leadership of the Tigers—Hawkins in particular. Not only did Hawkins not know how to read maps but he had tried to call in air strikes at the wrong coordinates. Sooner or later, he was going to get the men killed, and Wood didn’t want to be around to bear witness to a slaughter.
That wasn’t all. He told Naughton about the killing of the old man, the shooting of the two old women, and the targeting of unarmed farmers. “These younger guys are impressionable,” he told the lieutenant. “They’re going to eventually go along, and when that happens, the Tigers will be nothing but an assassination squad.”
Naughton listened without saying much. He knew Wood wasn’t off the mark. When he had still been in the field, he had known Ybarra was collecting ears and that Doyle was crazy. But Naughton announced there was little he could do. He didn’t have the authority to investigate the allegations by himself, and besides, the commanders were depending on the Tigers. “That’s just the way it is,” he said. As far as headquarters was concerned, the unit was “off-limits” to scrutiny. Naughton told Wood to hang in there and, if he really wanted to press the issue, take it to someone higher. (Unknown to Wood, Naughton was preparing to pass on the complaint, but not before returning to the United States.)
Disappointed, Wood was faced with a dilemma. He could stick to his plan and restrain Hawkins himself or keep going up the food chain until someone listened.
Just as when he had been told he was too small to play, he started to get angry. Why should he listen to Naughton? The hell with it, Wood concluded—he was going to go to the top. He marched to the battalion headquarters and there met with an executive officer, repeating the same story. “It’s got to stop,” he said.
The officer listened and then glared at Wood. “What do you expect me to do?” he asked. “We’re in the middle of a war, Lieutenant. And you want me to take our best unit out of action because a few guys are killing gooks?”
Wood was stunned. He paused and took a deep breath. “I’m only talking about the field commander. Getting him out. He’s a lousy soldier and he’s setting a bad example.”
The officer shook his head. “I will take your request under consideration,” he said, clearly wanting Wood to leave.
Wood could tell this wasn’t going anywhere. He rose from his chair and left. He would have to take care of Hawkins himself.
Dennis Stout watched through his tent as the Tigers strutted into camp. He didn’t think he would ever see the platoon members again, but there they were—back at Carentan—and suddenly he was anxious. He was supposed to have rejoined them after his first venture into the Song Ve but had always managed to find an excuse. Stout could have reported the shooting of the villagers to the Criminal Investigation Division. As a public information officer, he had access to Army officials above and beyond the battalion commanders. But he hadn’t done so.
More frustrating was the war itself. He had started to get South Vietnamese soldiers to open up more to him about the enemy’s real strength, and what he heard wasn’t good. The NVA was setting up more camps each day in the Central Highlands. “Westmoreland is a bullshit artist,” he told his translator after reading news accounts of the general’s comments to Defense Secretary Robert McNamara on July 7. In a news story published in the New York Times and picked up by the Associated Press, Westmoreland was quoted as saying, “The war is not a stalemate. We are winning slowly but steadily. North Vietnam is paying a tremendous price, with nothing to show for it in return.” The reality was that nearly five thousand Americans had been killed in just the last six months—half of them since May. That was close to the same number killed in all of 1966. “How the hell can he possibly say we’re winning?” Stout wondered.
Stout just wanted to go back to the United States and finish his time. But before leaving, he was going to document what he had seen. That night and into the early morning, he sat at his desk and wrote down everything he remembered about the shooting of the villagers who were trying to surrender. He knew what he was doing would be frowned upon by battalion commanders. And if soldiers found out, his life could be in jeopardy. But he had not been able to forget what he saw. He hadn’t done the right thing earlier, but there was still time.
He tried to recall each and every name of the soldiers who could corroborate his account of what happened. He also pulled out the identification cards of the civilians who were executed. “I need to reconstruct everything,” he told Nguyen. Everything.
Sitting on a slope overlooking his old hamlet, Nyugen Dam promised himself he would wait one more day before making the trek to rejoin the others who had left their hiding places in the foothills. So far, there were no signs of soldiers, no signs of helicopters, and no signs of other villagers. But he wasn’t about to venture onto the valley floor. He had buried too many people.
As he sat on the hillside, he recalled his childhood, spending hours playing along the trails and splashing in the river. He remembered hi
s parents and grandparents trudging each morning through the fog into the rice fields. The valley was his home, and he dreaded leaving. “It was as if I was giving up my life,” he recalled.
Nyugen wasn’t worried about catching up with the others. He could move faster by himself and knew the terrain well enough to find his way to the mountains west of the Song Ve Valley. But he knew he couldn’t wait too long. He had enough rice to last a week and could find bananas and coconuts along the way. And he feared his wife or other family members would leave Nghia Hanh and come back, and he wouldn’t be there to warn them about the soldiers with the stripes—men who fired their guns at will.
As the sun burned away the morning fog, he could see planes passing over the mountains, the drone growing louder as the aircraft approached. He reached over and grabbed for a piece of canvas he had been using to shield himself from the rain and pulled it over his body. If the planes spotted him, it was just a matter of time before the soldiers came.
Nyugen peered from under the canvas, and as the aircraft came closer, he could see a fine mist coming down—almost like rain, but different. He was sure it wasn’t water. The mist emitted a strange, tingling odor that quickly became stronger and stung his nostrils. He pinched his nose, but it did no good. Suddenly, his head began to spin, his eyes burned, and he felt deeply sick.
The “mist” released by the four American twin-engine C-123 Provider transports overhead was a highly toxic herbicide—known as “Agent Orange”—that had been dumped on thousands of acres of Vietnamese jungle since 1962 to strip away the enemy’s hiding places. The use of chemicals by the U.S. military began in World War I, but it was taken to a new and dangerous level in South Vietnam. Agent Orange destroyed entire habitats, but it also led to serious health problems for U.S. troops exposed to the herbicide. Seven major companies, including Dow Chemical and Monsanto, supplied the military with more than 20 million gallons of Agent Orange during the war.
Flying in a staggered, lateral formation, the planes went the length of the valley’s six miles and then soared out of sight. With the river basin officially cleared of people, the military had received permission to put an end to the farming altogether by taking the most extreme measure: defoliating the rice fields. It was a final act to a campaign that began two months earlier, enough chemicals to kill every living plant and tree. Nothing could survive.
Nyugen waited until the noise subsided before pushing away the canvas. He stood up, dizzy and confused, wondering what had been sprayed. He staggered to the river, where he splashed water on his face and neck. After regaining his strength, he rose from the water and began walking slowly toward the trail leading out of the Song Ve.
CHAPTER 13
The Tigers weren’t given much time to unwind. Three hours after arriving at Carentan, they were hustled to a briefing in the mess area. Restless from their weeks in the valley, they wanted to head into town, but Colonel Austin and other officers were pressed for time, and the Tigers had no choice. Out there, the rules could be ignored, but on the base, the usual rigidity was maintained.
After they gathered, the briefing sergeant delivered the good news: the Tigers would not be returning to the Song Ve. That campaign was over. But the sergeant didn’t hesitate with the next bit of information: they would have only a few days for stand-down. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he said. They would be pulling out of Carentan on August 10 and heading in a truck convoy thirty-five miles north to the sprawling Army air base at Chu Lai and a new province—Quang Tin.
Unlike other assignments, this was not coming merely from battalion headquarters but from commanders in Saigon. Westmoreland and others were growing increasingly frustrated over intelligence reports showing thousands of enemy soldiers moving into the province. Despite intensive bombing of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, enemy soldiers were still traveling unabated down the route with weapons and food. With the Tigers carrying out surveillance, the battalion would be moving into the jungle terrain northwest of the air base to find enemy encampments. Because the area was seen as critical to the control of the Central Highlands, Westmoreland was adamant about stopping the movements. Secret Army estimates showed that 7,500 enemy soldiers per month were slipping into the South—mostly on the trails that wound through Quang Tin.
The development was not good for several reasons. First, it showed that despite the massive losses sustained by the enemy, the war was far from over. The North Vietnamese were not backing down. Since various units had arrived in the region in May, at least seventeen enemy positions had been set up in Quang Tin alone. Second, the deployment—if reported in the press—would be a blow to Westmoreland’s credibility with certain members of Congress and the American public, and generals rarely fought harder than when defending their own political turf.
The plan was for the Tigers to camp at Chu Lai and then break into teams on search-and-destroy missions. The new area of operations was much larger—ten times the size of the Song Ve Valley—and, in some ways, more treacherous. The terrain was covered by triple-canopy jungle, and most of the region was unknown even to the translators.
Beyond geography, Quang Tin was more challenging for two reasons: there were more North Vietnamese soldiers there than in Quang Ngai, and it was even more difficult to remove the civilians. In Quang Ngai, people lived in large population centers along the coast. Most of the villagers in Quang Tin were scattered across the province, with as many people living in the far western reaches, and for years the people had been building a system of earthen bunkers to stay safe from American sorties. The Vietcong had made significant inroads in the rural areas and had promised the people they wouldn’t force the villagers to leave their hamlets. The province served as a major artery of the Ho Chi Minh Trail—a massive patchwork of jungle paths, bridges, and underground passages where thousands of enemy troops were moving to the South undetected. No amount of bombing could destroy the trail. Even when a bridge was blown up, a new one was erected in hours by an army of workers devoted to keeping the trail open. For the North Vietnamese, it was a noble cause worth dying for.
Added to this was the fact that the people of Quang Tin had long been abandoned by Saigon. That didn’t mean they unanimously sided with the North. Indeed, many of the Buddhist leaders in the province had opposed the war. But such distinctions would matter little to the Tigers headed to the area. The enemy was more entrenched, and the villagers were less likely to leave on their own. And with Hawkins in the lead, there were only going to be more problems.
Before heading to the new operations area, the Tigers were given a day to get drunk and laid. Unfortunately for them, most huts selling alcohol in Duc Pho were sold out, and no new supplies were expected for days. After striking out, Carpenter and several Tigers stopped at a wood building that resembled a drive-through, with a large, open walk-up window and several picnic tables.
When Carpenter ambled to the window, a Marine behind the counter asked why the Tigers weren’t wearing helmets. “We don’t wear helmets,” a Tiger snapped.
The Marine then asked why the men weren’t wearing flags on their uniforms. Carpenter said the Tigers didn’t have to wear them and added that he wasn’t there to talk about uniforms.
“We just want some beer to last until tomorrow,” he said.
With his arms folded, the Marine stepped back and said he wasn’t going to sell them any beer. “Take off,” he said. But the Tigers weren’t going anywhere. They had been looking forward to getting drunk. Now that they had finally found beer, they weren’t going to let this Marine get in their way. “Fuck you, Marines,” said a Tiger. “You guys aren’t in there fighting the war. We are.”
Without warning, two Tigers hopped over the counter and started grabbing cases. When two Marines jumped into the fray to help their fellow soldier, the other Tigers stormed the building. They jumped on the Marines. Some grabbed chairs and began smashing them against the wall; others took out their Zippo lighters and held the flames up to the slats in the building. Wi
thin minutes, flames were running up the sides and to the roof.
As the soldiers ran outside and the building was engulfed by fire, the Tigers loaded the beer onto a Jeep and sped away.
Even after chugging Black Labels most of the night, Green and Ybarra couldn’t sleep. They staggered to their tents and immediately began talking so loudly the other soldiers were awakened. With their tours over in a few weeks, they would be given the option of signing up for another six months. Before starting their new tours, they would get a month’s R & R—anywhere they wanted to drag themselves. But they needed to make a decision soon.
From the briefing, Ybarra was looking forward to going to the new operations area. Green wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t see staying any longer than he had to in South Vietnam. He was already close to the edge, and he was looking forward to getting back to some form of sanity.
Ybarra glared at his friend. “What do you mean, man? You can’t leave now,” he snapped. Green wanted to tell Ybarra that it was over, that he just wanted to go home. But he couldn’t. Once again, Ybarra was challenging Green’s manhood, and Ken wasn’t going to let Ybarra get his way. Besides, if they stayed together, they could keep each other alive.
Ybarra was excited. “There’s more action up there,” he said about the new operations area. Besides, what was Green going to do back in Globe? Did he want to work in the mines? There sure as hell wasn’t much else. Here, he was part of something that was important. In Globe, he was nothing, and would always be nothing.
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