I Am Soldier of Fortune

by Brown, Robert, Spencer, Vann

  While on radio watch on 23 April 1969, I wrote: “Interesting job. A typical day was yesterday. At 0500, Charley dropped in 35–40 rounds of 82mm (mortar rounds) on our runway, killing two ARVN Rangers and wounding three as well as destroying the chopper refueling point. At 0700, laid on detail to police up debris so planes could land. At 1000 almost got into fight with three Rangers who got pissed when I wouldn’t sell them any beer. Chased them out of the compound. At 1200 one of four Montagnard children set off a claymore wounding one Air Cav trooper. They were thrown in jail for a couple of hours and everyone yuk yuked—except the Cav man who has a hole in his arm—course, he may be yuk, yuking cause he got medivaced to the rear. At 1400 went over with 1st Sgt (Lyons) and chewed out the 4.2 mortar crew cause they weren’t working—much yelling and screaming. Made more enemies. Found out that the VC mortar crew that disturbed my sleep got dumped on. An Air Cav unit found their position—bloody bandages, blood trails and a blown up 82mm mortar. Called in air strikes and arty in support of field element yesterday afternoon and eve. This morn, went up in Cav chopper for visual recon. We got called in on a downed chopper shot down by ground fire and burned. Rescue chopper got out one seriously wounded. Back to our base to refuel— landed—Ranger 3/4 truck nearby —backed up to get out of our way— over two Rangers who were sleeping behind truck—one had broken pelvis so had to get medivaced. Other than that, today is quiet.”

  OLD CHARLIE GOT ME

  On 20 May 1969, I wrote: “Old Charlie messed me over on the 15th. We took 27 rounds of 107mm rockets within our perimeter . . . was running back from artillery position and got hit 20 meters away . . . 16 holes in me . . . mostly small . . . face pretty screwed up for a while . . . one fragment went through my right cheek and out my right lip . . .”

  25 June 1969: “Got some good action last week. Had a combined op-eration—100 of my little people and a troop of the iith Armored Car. Went around shooting up NVA bunker complexes in the Michelin rubber plantations. Sighted five gooks one afternoon and got two on our way back. Charles ambushed us. The Armored Cav. Troop commander, a Captain, in whose APC I was riding took a .50 cal round which blew half of his wrist away. Missed me by less than a foot. The Buddha I wear looks out for me. We shot our way out. Took one U.S. KIA, three WIA and five CIDG WIA. Two nights latter Charles lobbed RPG rounds into our perimeter we had set up with the Cav. Troop. Two of my CIDG were wounded by friendly fire from our perimeter. I had sent them out on ambush but instead of moving several hundred meters away from the perimeter as ordered, they only went out about 50 meters and, playing the part of laggards as they were prone to do when not supervised, sacked out. And being where they weren’t supposed to be, got shot up. I was glad to get back to Tong Le Chon, shit hole that it is, where we just get mortared occasionally . . . though I’m a bit more cautious about standing up on top of a bunker and watching the mortar rounds explode. Yea, I’m out of the hospital and have been since about 24 May. Got bored and became so obnoxious the head nurse discharged me five days early.”

  TROUBLE IN THE CAMP

  As time passed, I found myself more and more at odds with my counterpart, a Captain Long, who commanded the resident Vietnamese Special Forces detachment. Hypothetically, I and my A-team were in the camp to advise and assist the Vietnamese. In fact, in my camp and most A-team camps that was not the case. We ran things as we controlled the funding of the camps’ operations as well as the salaries for all the CIDG mercenaries. We decided when and where to conduct combat operations, as well as, for the most part, camp policies.

  Early on, it became apparent that Captain Long was less than enthusiastic about scheduling our combat patrols in areas where we might run into the enemy. Sergeant Lyons also was not impressed with Captain Long. He remembers, “I had noticed for a month prior to Captain Brown’s arrival that Captain Long was a very hard-to-understand, hard-to-get-along-with individual. While he was with you, he was always patting you on the back and telling you what a great job you were doing, and how great it was that you were fighting alongside the Vietnamese. Upon departing from your company, however, Captain Long would revert to his old individualism and would ignore our advice and suggestions. . . . We never could seem to get them (LLDB) to work or conduct aggressive combat operations . . . When an operation was planned which seemed to promise a hairy situation, Captain Long always seemed to have a reason to go to Bien Hoa or An Loc. Captain Long only ran two combat operations in the six months I was in Tong Le Chon, and he was ordered by his superiors to run both of these operations.

  “There was also a strange feeling among the detachment members in TLC about Captain Long. It seems that every time he left the camp during the months of May and June, we would receive rockets, mortars, or a probe of our perimeter. My Intel sergeant, Fletcher Blocksum, would make an intelligence assessment as to where our efforts would most likely produce results. Captain Long would always suggest an area least likely to encounter the enemy.”

  After being in my camp for a couple of weeks, I developed a rapport with the commander of the Cambodian company who were of the Khmer Serei political persuasion, and who after Lon Nol took over the Cambodian government in 1970, were sent along with all the other SF Cambodian companies to bolster the Lon Nol regime. The Cambos were far superior to my other two companies of Vietnamese and Montagnards. The Montagnards were of the sub-tribe, the Stang, and simply were not as aggressive as other Yard tribes like the Bru or the Rhade.

  The Cambo company commander, once he felt he could trust me, told me what was really going on in camp, e.g. the corruption. Captain Long had come to see the camp as his own personal money machine. For instance, he had his own PX, through which he sold fresh food to the CIDG and their dependents. We had about 576 troops and another 400 or so dependents that lived within the wire of the camp. Tong Le Chon was somewhat unique in that we were the only one of the 50-some A-Team camps that did not have a village nearby where fresh food and other necessities could be purchased and the troops’ dependents could live. Since the road from Hon Quan, where our B-Team was located and which was the nearest village, was unsecured, all supplies and fresh food for the i,000-plus inhabitants had to be airlifted in. I found out, from my Cambo Captain, that Captain Long was essentially extorting money from the CIDG by charging exorbitant amounts for the necessities of life like $50 for a live chicken—when the average monthly salary was only $50! I put a stop to that shit by not allowing him to bring goods for his PX into camp on U.S. aircraft, and thus gained an undying enmity from Captain Long.

  Sergeant Lyons confirmed the treachery: “As far as graft and corruption go, in our camp Captain Brown made an earnest attempt to get to the bottom of the problems. This was probably one of the factors which led to the deterioration of rapport. Captain Long was opposed to Captain Brown’s efforts as Captain Long was making several thousand dollars a month through profiteering.

  “Captain Long ran a PX at Tong Le Chon. He would bring fresh food, black market cigarettes and whiskey on U.S. planes and would sell it at outrageous prices to the CIDG. I remember one instance when his ‘co-op’ sold a small cucumber for 80 piasters. A live chicken would cost as much as 1,400 piasters. His younger brother, who was on the CIDG payroll, ran the PX. This character commuted to Bien Hoa almost weekly to get goods. . . . During the six-month period I was there, Captain Long’s brother was never out of camp on any type of operations—even local security.”

  Captain Long also fostered dissent in TLC by showing favoritism to the Vietnamese over the Cambodians or Montagnards. An example of this and how it adversely affected our combat effectiveness, Sergeant Lyons recounts:

  During the month of April, we had a recruiting program going. Captain Long sent his Reconnaissance Platoon Leader to An Loc to recruit individuals for the CIDG. He recruited about 170 people in the course of a week. Long took trained personnel from the two CIDG reconnaissance platoons and put Vietnamese recruits in place of the Cambodians, which caused dissent. (CIDG assigned to the recon pl
atoons received slightly higher pay than regular CIDG personnel.) These people went on operations and aggravated an already dangerous situation. Beyond that the recruits (Vietnamese) were inept, lazy and poorly trained.

  DENS OF THIEVES

  Speaking of food, at some point in time I became suspicious (I don’t remember why) that we were somehow being cheated on the amount of fresh food we were actually receiving from our food supplier, a devious Chinese who had the contract to supply all the A-Teams in the area. I asked the B-Team for a scale to weigh the food. Not surprisingly the response was, “No funds available for unauthorized purchase.” So, I went out and bought one on the local economy. The next time the fresh food was flown in on the twin-engine Caribou, I and my ever faithful Team Sergeant, Lyons, were on hand with our scale. We started weighing each category of food. And suspicions were confirmed. Instead of 110 kilos of watercress, we got 100 kilos. The 150 kilo pig, 135 kilos, etc., etc. The son of a bitch Chinese food supplier was overcharging us 10%. I was infuriated. Shortly after the food arrived, by pure chance, Lt. Colonel Robert Campbell, the C Team commander stationed at Bien Hoa, choppered in on an unannounced inspection tour. I blew it. I had planned on sending the scale around to all the other A-Teams in our B-Team area and have them weigh fresh food shipments and then have an irrefutable case. But I was so pissed that I had to blow off steam to the good Colonel. He listened politely, as I recollected, promised nothing and departed. However, within an hour an Air Force major, who was in charge of getting food and supplies to the camp, flew in. “Look, Captain Brown,” he said, “You’re mistaken. Maybe your scale is wrong. We weigh every shipment that leaves the airport to see that the manifested weight is correct.” “Bullshit,” I muttered, “Mr. Hon is screwing us with the U.S. government and your help.” He turned red and stomped off to his chopper. Perhaps I was being unfair to him, as he may well have thought he was telling me the truth.

  As I was being transferred from my camp, I had an experience that provided an insight about how such errors could occur without the good Major being aware.

  From the time I assumed command of A-334 in February, an assistant of Mr. Hon, who had been a former camp interpreter who went by the nickname of “Cassidy,” was always trying to get me involved in some sort of illegal activity which would make him big bucks. Early on, I told him, “Cassidy, do not bring us anymore free 10 kilos of meat and 10 kilos of French bread.” I did not want my team to be indebted to the Chinese food supplier.

  “Not to worry, Dai Uy.” The third time it occurred, I told him, “We cannot accept this, Cassidy. Next time you bring that out here, I’m going to feed it to the pigs.” Once you get on the take with this kind of trash, you’ll pay for it eventually. Then it was, “Dai Uy Brown, you get birth control pills from States, we make big money from bar girls.” “NO.” Then later, “We go PX, you buy cameras, scotch, we sell on black market.” “NO.” And so it continued, one scheme after another. And he was always trying to entice me to party in Saigon, all expenses paid. And it was “NO” again.

  Then I got my order to report to my next assignment. Cassidy, ever optimistic and not knowing I was being transferred, once again approached me. “Mr. Hon want you to come to Saigon for dinner. Number one Chinese restaurant. He pay all. You be his guest,” He was unexpectedly overjoyed when I said, “Tell Mr. Hon that I would be highly honored.” Well, old Cassidy about wet his pants. After months of trying, the persistent con man thought he had finally suckered me in.

  The dinner was delightful, the scotch acceptable, the company charming. Slicky boy Cassidy and the insidious Mr. Hon were as happy as cats in a bird’s nest. This was all well and good but Hon was also hosting three young Air Force enlisted men—with free food, booze and bimbos and presents of gold Buddha’s. And it just so happened that these young troopers were in charge of weighing, loading and manifesting the fresh food and supplies flown out to the camps, including TLC. I remember thinking, “My, what a generous chap Mr. Hon was.”

  It was now clear how the wily Mr. Hon got phony manifests of the food sent to the A-Teams. He compromised the young enlisted men loading the aircraft.

  As I finished the meal I shook hands with Cassidy and then Mr. Hon, saying, “It was so good of you to throw me a going away party. Wish me luck as I’m off to my new assignment at SF Headquarters in Nha Trang tomorrow.” Doing an about face and striding off, I turned and smiled to see the two crooks start to go into terminal shock. A victory. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Heh, heh, heh.

  SURVIVING THE PSYCHO B-TEAM COMMANDER

  Sometime in April 1969, I led a company of my CIDG on an operation outside of our normal Area of Operations (AO). Shortly after, we broke out of the bush into the Michelin rubber plantation. The plantation’s hamlets had long been deserted. The rows of rubber trees had a foreboding look as there was no movement from humans or animals. After having moved out into the rows of trees for 50 or so yards, we ran across the tracks of half a dozen or so VC, a Ho Chi Minh sandal and a pole that was used to carry bunches of bananas. We had obviously spooked a small VC infrastructure unit who had heard us tromping into the plantation.

  There was no way that you could move a hundred or so men silently through the bush, and the bad guys bolted. It was getting towards dark and I decided to set a defensive perimeter for the night. Concurrently, I sent out a couple of patrols to check out the area. Within the hour, one of the patrols returned with a young Vietnamese male in his late teens. Since there was no legitimate reason for him to be in the deserted area, we assumed he was a VC and advised our B-Team, who sent a chopper out to pick him up and take him back to B-Team headquarters for interrogation. The next morning they choppered him into our perimeter, as he had agreed to lead us to his base camp a few clicks away.

  A couple of Montagnards on each side of him, they prodded him along with their M-16’s, hoping against hope that they would have an excuse to blow him away. The Yards hated the VC, the North Vietnamese and the South Vietnamese equally, as the Vietnamese in general considered the tribesmen savages, calling the Yards “Moi,” which had the same meaning as “nigger” did in our country. They were oppressed and exploited on a long-time continuing basis. And tragically, they still are today by the communist government.

  The young VC lead us into his camp which had obviously just been abandoned, as a couple of cooking fires were blazing; the rice was still warm. Once again, our numbers had announced our arrival, giving what we estimated to be eight to ten bad guys an opportunity to flee. We saw no point in trying to track the VC, and made our way back to Tong Le Chon, where we secured the prisoner behind barbed wire.

  The following morning, our B-Team commander, Lt. Colonel George R. Murray and his B-Team counterpart, a Vietnamese by the name of Major Long (no relationship to my camp counterpart), choppered into TLC. I hopped in a jeep and drove down to meet them at the chopper pad. I walked up to Murray and saluted. Murray opened the conversation without pleasantries, growling, “Brown, how many VC have you killed this month?” I knew Murray was a glory hound, determined to make his mark and reputation no matter what it cost or whom it killed. I had already had several run-ins with him from the time he took over command from Lt. Colonel Lanter, who was a decent human being and a competent SF commander.

  On one occasion, Murray had approached me, suggesting, “Brown, take a couple of your team and a dozen CIDG, put on VC black pajamas, grab some AK’s and go interdict the 5th NVA Division’s main supply line.” I replied, “I don’t think so, and Murray did an about face, grumbled and stalked off. True, I disobeyed a direct order. But there was no way this sorry excuse for an officer was going to bring me up on charges since at the time no American forces were allowed within five clicks of the Cambodian border and U.S. aircraft were not allowed within two clicks. He wanted us to emulate the highly effective SOG operators who ran recon operations into Cambodia and Laos, but without any air cover, extraction assets or artillery support. He was only interested in body counts
and didn’t give a shit if we were the ones providing the dead bodies.

  Another time, I had a company of CIDG who were making a helicopter assault into what our intelligence had reported was likely a hot LZ. The SOP for such an operation called for half the helicopters to disembark their troops who would immediately secure half the perimeter. The remaining troops would land and secure the other half of the perimeter. Then, once again according to SOP, we would immediately high tail it into the jungle to reduce the possibility of being attacked on the Landing Zone. But no! Murray instructs us to remain in position so he can land his chopper and come over and congratulate us for a successful insertion. Everyone thought he was insane. Fortunately, it was not a hot LZ and nobody got killed. No thanks to our fearless leader.

  On another occasion, Murray was with one of our sister A-Teams in a firefight, picked up a burning smoke grenade and hurled it on top of a bunker for reasons unknown, and later had the audacity to put himself in for a Purple Heart. The commander of the C Team, LTC Campbell rejected his award and wrote a scathing memo that went out to all SF personnel condemning such gross self-promotion. Campbell even sent Murray a barbeque mitt.

  Murray, we found out, had never been in Special Forces and was not Special Forces qualified. He was one of hundreds of officers who had been placed in a position that he was unprepared for but would allow him to get his six months of “command time,” which was imperative to have if an officer had any hopes of promotion.

  AN INVITATION TO COLD BLOODED MURDER

  Now as far as the young VC prisoner we had taken, after I told Murray we hadn’t whacked anybody during the month, he raised his bushy black eyebrows and offhandedly mentioned, “Well, Brown, if the prisoner is killed trying to escape tonight, you’ll get a body count.” Major Long, his Vietnamese counterpart, simply smiled. I was stunned! This was a blatant invitation to commit murder. The prisoner was no threat to the camp. I was at a loss for words. I should have told him that he could go fuck himself. But for reasons unknown I didn’t, and have regretted it ever since. Instead, I said, “Look, I’ve had a fair amount of experience interrogating VC. . .let me see what I can get out of him.” Murray and Long stalked off, obviously not satisfied with my response, and they choppered back to the B-Team.