Combat Swimmer

by Robert A. Gormly

  Andy Hayden took over at this point. He had an engineering rating and had salvaged aircraft before. We got the bodies on the right side of the helo out and on the ground next to the bird. Both of them were like jelly. I think every bone in their bodies had been crushed. It took us six hours to disassemble the helo to get at the other two men. We all were in the ditch following Andy’s directions, and quickly much of the helo was in pieces on the ground.

  Soon after we had started, I got a call from the Seawolves overhead saying they had taken fire from about 300 meters farther in on the island (I hadn’t heard a thing with them circling over us). The pilot told me they were going to go into a wagon wheel to return fire, but since he couldn’t see our perimeter forces, would I mark their positions so he wouldn’t hit them? I rogered.

  I got out of the ditch to look for the Popular Force company commander. Walking about a hundred meters from the helo in the direction he’d said he’d be, I saw no one. They’d apparently run away. I hurried back to the guys and told them I wanted everyone but Andy and one other out of the ditch. Then I radioed the Seawolves to tell them to break contact and circle back over us. I figured the fire they’d taken was meant to draw them away.

  I set a perimeter and waited for an attack. The helos started taking fire from .51-caliber antiaircraft guns. They broke contact and came back over us. When nothing else happened for about twenty minutes, I put three more guys back to work on the helo. It was now about 1400, and I wanted to be out of there by nightfall.

  Finally, Andy got down to the left side, and we dragged out the other two bodies. John Abrams had been killed instantly. An aluminum crosspiece from the helo’s frame had pierced his chest and pinned him to the seat. It took us nearly an hour to free him and put him in a body bag next to his mates.

  The ship CO sent in an Army heavy-lift helo with cargo nets for the bodies and whatever parts we’d salvaged from the crash. They’d drop the full nets on the ship, then lift out the rest of the helo and carry it to Can Tho for evaluation. (We later learned investigators had found just one hit on the helo. A .51-caliber round had entered the gear box and frozen the rotor almost instantly—a freak hit.)

  We ended up with three nets full of helo parts. Out of respect for our fallen comrades, I put their bodies in the first cargo net by themselves. About 1700, we finally got the rest of the Seawolf attached to the hook, then watched as the remnants of our efforts lifted through the trees and headed upriver. It got really quiet.

  I stood at the edge of the ditch and stared into the muck, my men in line next to me. We were all exhausted and emotionally drained. In the silence we paid tribute to the brave men who had died there. After a minute I turned away from the ditch and said, “Let’s get out of here.” All we had to do was reach the river, where our boat would pick us up. On the way I hoped some dumb-ass VC would take a potshot at us: we were tired, but we were also pissed off. Our buddies had been killed, and we all wanted to kill the assholes who did it, though I knew finding them was next to impossible. Our boat was waiting for us when we arrived at the river, and we boarded without incident.

  Later, I found out the PF company had decided to return to their base for lunch. Their U.S. Navy adviser was furious when they showed up, but he couldn’t get them to return to the island. They hadn’t wanted to go in the first place. They were scared to death of Dung Island—because, they said, evil spirits lived there. The only spirits they were afraid of wore black pajamas, but that was the nature of the war. The Junk Force chief had obviously reached an agreement with the local VC hierarchy, and having his people on the island wasn’t part of the agreement.

  Back on the LST, I noticed that all of us had been burned by the spilled aviation fuel that had collected in the ditch. Andy was worst off, since he’d been in the ditch for nearly twelve hours. He looked like a cooked lobster. None of the men complained, though. They all knew that if it hadn’t been for John and Soto, we might all be dead in Bac Lieu Province. We all felt sick about the shoot-down.

  We slept on the ship that night and went back to Binh Thuy the next morning. In a few days we’d put the episode behind us. John, Soto, and their two gunners had been doing their jobs. The same thing could happen to any of us.

  15

  ANOTHER CLOSE CALL: NUI COTO

  On July 23, I loaded the platoon into Huey slicks and headed for Chau Doc. A week earlier, I’d flown there to meet the U.S. adviser to the Provincial Reconnaissance Unit, a Special Forces sergeant by the name of Drew Dix. Drew, about to be awarded the Medal of Honor for his heroism during the Tet Offensive and given a field promotion to second lieutenant, was one of the coolest operators I ever worked with.

  His role as PRU “adviser” was actually CIA cover. All the Army commands he worked with were told he was an Army major seconded to the Agency. Six feet two inches tall and a lean 175 pounds, with light brown hair and intense eyes, he not only looked and acted the part, he was a better officer than any major I’d ever seen. It amused me that, while Drew accepted the idea he was going to get the MOH (I don’t think he really liked it—he just accepted it) he was very apprehensive about being promoted to lieutenant. He wasn’t sure he could be a leader in the “regular” Army.

  At the time he commanded a force of over a hundred former Vietcong and Vietnamese mercenaries, conducting operations throughout the province for the CIA.

  Drew met us at the helo pad and told me he was going to put us up at the villa, where he lived, because it was the only place he felt security was sufficient. He had a guard force composed of Nungs, Vietnamese of Chinese descent and very loyal to whoever employed them. After settling us in, he gave us an intelligence briefing on the activities around the Seven Mountains, which rise out of the Mekong Delta near the Cambodian border. He had been to one of them, Nui Coto, two weeks earlier as part of a combined operation that had met with little success. The U.S. Army colonel commanding the operation proclaimed the area free of Vietcong, but Drew suspected otherwise. He figured we could have all the trouble we wanted—and probably a hell of a lot more success—if we went back to the very same area. He had good intelligence through his PRUs that there was a huge weapons-and-ammo cache in a cave at the western base of Nui Coto, and he had a guide who could lead us there. I said we’d do it.

  We needed a few days to clear the operation. Drew had to convince the corps commander that there was still a good target; I’d have no problem clearing the operation through the Navy side, except for the fact that Nui Coto was not near any water and the staff pukes at CTF-116 might get heartburn over that. I knew CTF-116 captain (later rear admiral) Art Price wouldn’t have a problem with SEALs attacking the enemy inland, because he was an aggressive commander who liked our previous results. But, if I didn’t make an issue of it, I could save him from having to go to the corps commander, his operational boss, to explain what SEALs were doing in an area the Army had “pacified.” So I fudged a bit on the coordinates I sent in.

  Drew and I both wanted my platoon to become more familiar with the area before the mission, so we set up a series of recons, which gave an understanding of what we’d face on Nui Coto. We conducted patrols all around the mountain, to the Cambodian border, and on the nearby canals. We drew fire and noted positions but for the most part had no trouble. I began to think that maybe the area really was “pacified.”

  Drew suggested that we begin the operation at the base camp of an Army Mike Force (a Vietnamese or Cambodian unit commanded by a member of the U.S. Special Forces) that was located at the top of the eastern knoll of Nui Coto. The mountain itself resembled a giant rock pile some ancient giant had assembled. Through the ages parts of it had become heavy scrub brush and jungle. With its natural labyrinth of caves and tunnels, capable of holding forces of regimental size, it was a perfect spot for defensive positions. Onto this huge rock pile a contingent of my platoon and Drew’s PRUs went by helicopter on August 2, 1968.

  The available intelligence made it clear that this was a high-risk opera
tion, though with equally high potential for gain. To lessen the risk we decided to confer with the Mike Force before we headed for our target. Unfortunately, it soon became apparent they knew less than we did. They were having a hard time convincing their mostly Cambodian contingent to venture beyond the base camp perimeter defense positions.

  They had been there for three days, mortared every night by the bad guys on the western knoll of the mountain, where our objective was located. The Army captain and his NCO, who were Special Forces troops, asked if we would allow them and part of their Mike Force to accompany us on the operation. In almost any other situation I would have said no, but after realizing we might have bitten off more than we could chew, I agreed. The twenty or so additional troops could come in handy for their firepower.

  The first night we hunkered down among the boulders to get out of the way of mortar rounds and a driving rainstorm. I spent the night with Warrant Officer Ed Jones, my assistant on this operation. Ed was a good operator, really calm under fire. He had come through UDT training as a chief petty officer and impressed everyone with his ability to hack training at his age. His nickname was Carbon Copy, because he was the second Ed Jones to come to UDT. The first Ed Jones had been white. It’s interesting that, while the rest of the military was having all kinds of racial problems, we didn’t. We didn’t care what color a man was, only that he could do his job. On Nui Coto the first night, as we huddled together sharing a poncho and avoiding incoming mortar fire, Ed and I didn’t check our pedigrees—we were SEALs, and that’s all that mattered.

  We headed out early the next morning. Movement in that terrain was extremely difficult: it took us about two hours to go 500 meters. So we decided to risk using the trails, figuring the increased speed offset the increased danger of booby traps and ambushes. Also, while we believed the enemy knew we were on the mountain, we guessed that after observing three days of inactivity by the Mike Force, they might not expect us to be moving, and the faster we moved the more time we had before they realized it. Anyway, going against conventional wisdom was what we were about.

  We moved quickly but cautiously, and by midafternoon were near the objective. About 1530 our luck ran out. My point man sighted what proved to be the first booby trap in a diabolically clever defensive perimeter. I stopped to assess the situation. We had expected to encounter a platoon-sized unit in defensive positions and had plenty of air support laid on to help. When we found the first booby trap, and then the next and the next, we considered calling in an air strike to destroy as many as we could. But closer examination revealed the traps had been there for some time, probably set two or three weeks ago when a group of Vietnamese rangers had been on the mountain. At any rate, they hadn’t been set for us, and we had seen no other sign of enemy activity, so we decided just to move cautiously and preserve “tactical” surprise as long as we could. Our pace slowed drastically as we changed point men frequently and marked all the traps that we found. Soon, it became clear that we were in the midst of the most complex booby trap system I had ever seen. There were grenades, antipersonnel mines (of U.S. manufacture), mortar rounds, unexploded bombs from past air strikes, and punji pits—just about everything imaginable. For actuation devices they’d used trip wires, pressure-release wires, and pressure and pressure-release foot detonators. They’d put buried mortars in the lee of large boulders so that they would be activated by anyone diving for cover from a mortar attack.

  We took so long to cover a few hundred meters that darkness overtook us well short of our objective. We decided to lay up for the night in ambush formation. About 0200, when the first mortar rounds fell near our position, we realized we had lost tactical surprise. At that point I would have scrubbed the operation, but it seemed more sound to proceed than to retrace our steps. We decided to move back just clear of the booby traps and call in an air strike at first light.

  A few hours later, we took cover behind enormous boulders (first checking very carefully for booby traps) and said, “Let ’er rip.” As the F-100s screamed in on their first run, I remembered the ripe smells we had encountered early on in the patrol: VC killed in the caves by B-52 strikes before the Vietnamese ranger operation. We were so close to the F-100s’ target area I wondered if we would meet the same end. I felt as if I could reach up and touch the first plane that came in. It was right on the mark. As the 250-pound bombs hit, we heard numerous secondaries. The mines were being decimated.

  The second F-100 rolled in to a steady stream of antiaircraft fire from two positions right in the middle of the drop area. I couldn’t believe it! We lobbed some 40mm grenades as the first plane started its second run, but couldn’t touch the gun positions—they were too well protected by the rocks. The F-100s made enough runs to drop all their ordnance and expend all their 20mm cannon ammunition; then, with the flight leader wishing us luck, they returned to base to refuel and rearm. As the planes disappeared into the sky, the VC kept firing. The flight leader’s parting words seemed ominous.

  We moved out. After about 300 meters we began finding more booby traps; the system was even more extensive than we’d imagined. It took about another hour to get to the knoll over the cave we were after. From there we could see across the Cambodian border to the west. We could also see the bottom of the mountain where our target was located. No sign of activity did we see. I told Ed Jones to get our force into defensive positions. We were all physically and emotionally drained from the stress of moving through the booby traps, and the mortar fire the two previous nights had deprived us of sleep. I didn’t want to be caught napping. There were enemy forces on the mountain, and by now they knew where we were. I figured they hadn’t attacked for a couple of reasons. First, they didn’t have to; they could fire mortars at us whenever they wanted. Second, they probably recognized Drew’s PRUs and were not in a hurry to tangle with them. They also had one other reason they were waiting, but at the time I didn’t know about it.

  Drew and I advanced about fifteen meters from our guys to get a better picture of what we’d have to move through to get to the bottom and our cave. We wanted to pick a route through the rocks that would offer us the best cover. As I’ve mentioned, the VC had established a labyrinth of tunnels and firing points, using the natural formation of the boulders. By now we knew getting to the cave was not going to be easy.

  Drew and I were standing in front of a boulder, looking down, when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I shoved Drew toward cover on the other side of the boulder and we both dove backward. Without our knowing, Drew’s interpreter had been following us, and we ran over him taking cover. As the three of us hit the corner of the boulder, I heard the unmistakable sound of AK-47s firing. Rounds plastered the rock as we crawled for cover, Drew on top of his interpreter and me on top of Drew.

  Lobbing 40mm grenades toward the fire, our guys quickly suppressed it. Once we’d unpiled, Drew and I found we were covered with little nicks from the rock shrapnel but were otherwise uninjured. We’d “dodged the bullet.” Drew’s interpreter had taken two rounds in the back that had exited his chest. He was having a little difficulty breathing but, in all, wasn’t in terrible shape. We were assessing the situation when it suddenly got worse.

  What I feared most had happened: one of my guys, Joe Albrecht, stepped on a mortar booby trap, even though it had been marked with aluminum foil. The explosion also wounded Andy Hayden, who was directly behind. The guys in front escaped the blast because they had just turned the corner of the boulder where the booby trap was located. Joe—a good operator, who had been in one of my platoons in UDT-22—was in bad shape. His leg had been nearly torn off at the knee, and he had bad internal injuries.

  En route to the knoll we had identified a place for a helo MEDEVAC site. About a hundred meters back down the trail. It was the side of a bomb crater—there were no flat spots anywhere. I called for a helo. The voice on the other end of the radio told me one was thirty minutes away from our position. Clay Grady and Doc O’Bryan volunteered to ca
rry Joe to the bomb crater. He was still conscious and joking with the guys about how stupid it was for him to have stepped on a marked booby trap, so I was hopeful that he’d live.

  Clay and Doc maneuvered Joe back through the booby traps to the crater. The helo came in, balancing one skid on the side of the crater, and Joe, Andy, and Drew’s interpreter were put aboard. The helo literally fell off the side of the mountain to gain airspeed. Fire erupted from below and behind us. Green tracers went zinging by the helo as it lost altitude, and I thought it had been hit. It sailed toward the rice paddies below. Just as I thought it would hit the ground, the helo straightened out and raced across the paddies like a low-flying hawk.

  I realized I had pushed too far. It was unlikely we were going to be able to fight our way to the cave without taking significant casualties. Worse, Drew received a radio message from the PRUs we had stationed in the first village off the north side of the mountain just in case we needed help. They’d detected a battalion-sized Vietcong force hurrying toward Nui Coto from the Cambodian border. That was probably why we hadn’t been attacked: the VC on the mountain were waiting for reinforcements. The PRU chief said he would hold the village but that we really ought to get off the mountain—now. Drew and I agreed. We decided to head quickly down through a narrow pass on the north side of the mountain that we had passed on the way to the knoll. It would be risky in daylight, but after weighing the alternatives I decided rapid movement was better than going the long way around. The bottom of the ravinelike pass emptied out into rice paddies about 2,000 meters from the village where the remainder of the PRUs were located. I told the Mike Force captain the plan, and he asked to come with us.