Your Sons -- My Soldiers -- Our War: A Vietnam Commander's Struggle

By George R. Mauldin

In October1968 Captain George Morgan is about to embark on what he considers to be the best job in the U.S. Armycommanding a rifle company in combat. At age 27, he will be referred to as The Old Man by the soldiers under his command. He is already a seasoned veteran of service in Vietnam and is now returning for a second tour of duty in what has become an increasingly unpopular war in the U.S.

During this assignment, Morgan acquires a keen sense of responsibility to his unit, which calls itself Charlie Hunter, and to the men who serve in it. He develops a special bond with many of his men, and one in particulara young Mexican who is nicknamed Mouse. The story takes this unit on many dangerous missions and recounts the bravery and compassion of the soldier called Mouse. In the course of operations, the unit comes into contact with a mysterious Vietnamese woman, who eventually brings the commander to Saigon. That visit draws the captain into the realm of espionage and subterfuge and culminates with him on stand-by to lead a mission to rescue the Vietnamese woman. While leading his men on combat missions, Captain Morgan becomes increasingly disillusioned with the war and finds it more and more difficult to justify Americas presence in Vietnam to his subordinates; yet, he must continue to set the example and project the image of the stalwart commander.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 23, 2005
• ISBN: 9781452083339

George R. Mauldin

The author served in the U.S. Army for 32 years and retired in 1992 as a colonel.  He served two combat tours in Vietnam, and also served in Desert Shield/Desert Storm in 1990-1991.  He spent over seven and one-half years in the Middle East and North Africa.  His last assignment on active duty was to the U.S. Army War College as the Director of Middle East Studies.  He has an insatiable appetite for hunting and fishing, and enjoys the pursuit of the outdoor life from his home in Tennessee.

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Your Sons—

My Soldiers—

Our War

A Vietnam Commander’s Struggle

by

George R. Mauldin

Title_Page_Logo.ai

© 2005 George R. Mauldin. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by

any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 05/11/05

ISBN: 1-4208-4775-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8333-9 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2005903183

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FOREWORD

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I owe so much to my wife, Kathy, for her support and patience through this process. A special recognition of her faith in my abilities and her deep understanding of the psychological burden I still bear from the war in Vietnam

A debt of gratitude to our dear friend, Katherine Hussey, for her help in proofing and editing.

Special thanks to my friend and retired military colleague, Major (Retired) Jeff Brown, for his all night proofing sessions—Airborne.

My deep appreciation to Master Chief (Retired) James (JJ) Thomas, for sharing his keen insights about Saigon.

To my brothers and sisters, thank you for your support and encouragement. I’m not sure that I could have done it without you.

Last, but certainly not least, special thanks to John Howard, an accomplished author of several hunting books, for sharing his valuable writing and publishing experiences and for rendering a critical evaluation of the manuscript.

FOREWORD

To say that the war in Vietnam was one of America’s worst blunders is a gross understatement. It divided this nation in every conceivable way, with everyone pointing an accusing finger at everyone else. It eroded our value systems by undermining our traditional authority figures, neutralizing the fundamental disciplines that were the essential fabric of our society, and making a mockery of the concept of patriotism, honor, and service to our country.

Politicians labeled this war a police action or limited war. Technically, these labels were appropriate, for the United States Congress never actually declared war on North Vietnam. However, irrespective of the label that is affixed to this tragic event by future generations, its brutal ugliness was real for those unfortunate Americans who answered the call to serve. It was especially real and ugly for the young Americans who served in fighting units. It was likewise real for families and friends who waited behind in constant fear for the lives of these true patriots. And the hate runs deep and dark in the hearts of patriotic Americans who saw many cowards duck their patriotic duty through legal or bureaucratic manipulations or seek refuge behind the skirts of a foreign flag.

Many surviving veterans of this war carry deep, permanent scars. Some of these scars are visible to external examination; whereas, others are contained within, but are still debilitating in varying degrees. Some surviving veterans admittedly envy those who died. Others suppress these haunting thoughts and pretend to be normal as they look for new ways to rationalize their guilt and search in their hearts for an explanation as to why so many Americans blame the military for this abysmal failure when the blame clearly belongs with inept, bungling politicians.

As one, who was looked to for leadership and answers, I can never forget the difficulty that I encountered in attempting to explain the meaning of that war to my soldiers. It was impossible to sell the idea that Ho Chi Minh and the Viet Cong guerillas threatened either the American homeland or our way of life. Further, it was ludicrous to build a case for this war around a clash of ideologies. I had to deal with rational and credible explanations. Reality was, after all, that the common, uneducated American youth filled the ranks of the fighting units; and, just as they have done in previous wars and other political misadventures, it was they who suffered, died, and were soon forgotten by all except their families, close friends, and surviving veterans.

It is a man with no conscience, no feeling, and no compassion for his fellow man, who can continue to give orders under these circumstances and not feel a piece of his heart torn away each time he sees one of his soldiers carried away on a stretcher. What was a soldier’s reward for following orders that could result in serious injury or death? If he were among the lucky veterans and returned home without injuries, he could still expect rejection simply because he had answered the call to duty. Should he be killed, some drug-crazed protester might spit on his coffin as it was transported through the airports back in the good ‘ole USA. Such experiences have left many survivors deeply scarred and dangerously embittered; and above all else, wary of blind obedience to the whims of over-zealous politicians.

Tragedy struck many American families over the eleven-year course of this war as many of them saw the dreaded military sedan stop in front of their homes to announce the numbing news of the death, serious injury, or disappearance and presumed capture of their loved ones. However, the ugliness of this war touched the lives of many people who were neither Americans nor Vietnamese. A young Mexican joined the U.S. Army in the mid-1960’s and found himself a few months later in the midst of this war. His goal was honorable service in the U.S. Army, and his dream was a productive and prosperous life in America. He never realized this dream, because he was killed near the end of his one-year tour while helping a wounded comrade. This story is largely about real people and, although the book is fiction, the descriptions of combat scenes are based on operations that were led by me. The ugly, messy fighting, the physical suffering and the mental anguish, and the confusion and frustration were real at the time, and are relived only too frequently in the nightmares of many surviving veterans.

This book is dedicated to all the fine Americans who served in this war, and especially, to the members of Company C, 6th Battalion, 31st Infantry, 9th Infantry Division, whose motto was Charlie Hunter. A special tribute is also in order to the memory of Sergeant Santana S. Fernandez, Jr., who was an inspiration to all who knew him.

CHAPTER I

THE PLAIN OF REEDS—

A WET HELL

IT WAS DAWN. THERE WAS JUST ENOUGH LIGHT SO THAT SHADOWY

figures were distinguishable a few feet away. Captain Morgan, who was the relatively new commander of Charlie Company, had instructed the first sergeant to wake the company at 0430 hours and to arrange for the cooks to feed his men a warm meal for breakfast. It was now 0540 hours. Morgan had gulped down a cup of coffee at the mess hall, and was driven in his command jeep to the helipad where the lift helicopters, or slicks, as they were called, would arrive in a short time to pick-up Charlie Company for airmobile operations.

By 0620 hours, all combat-worthy members of his company were assembled before him on the helipad. He had already explained how the platoons should organize in six-man loads, and how each load should be staggered to facilitate pick-up by the choppers. He had chosen this time to reassure his men about the mission before them, and to pass-on last minute information and instructions.

Men, Morgan shouted, the hot intelligence, which was passed on to me by the battalion intelligence officer only a short while ago, indicates that the Viet Cong are operating from the strips of land that we’ll hit. From what Lieutenant Johnson has described to me, we’ll be exposed completely, with nothing to use for cover, from the moment we exit the choppers until we enter the nippa palm. Just as it is for most of you, this is my first visit to the ‘Plain of Reeds.’ Therefore, I called upon a veteran, who has made repeated trips to this area, to tell us as much as he can about what we can expect from the terrain and environment. Lieutenant Johnson has agreed to share his insights and knowledge with all of us, so listen up.

Men, Dan Johnson began with his strong baritone voice, this area, which we know as ‘ the Plain of Reeds,’ is a large expanse of marshland. It’s just water and thin, green aquatic reeds for as far as you can see in any direction. There are strips of hard ground scattered throughout this massive plain, which the Viet Cong use during this time of year for transporting supplies, dispatching messengers, and even infiltrating whole units in some instances by sampans, which, as you know are boats made from hollowed logs. The VC use the strips of high ground as intermediate stops, control points, communications points, and security outposts for this important route. They sometimes dig foxholes and bunkers on these strips, and, if enemy fighters are present when we assault today, we can expect them to defend their positions with small arms, heavy machine guns, rocket-propelled grenades, and booby traps or mines. The water depth varies so much that it is unpredictable. It may be knee-deep, or it may be over our heads.

Men, Morgan interjected as the waning deflection in Johnson’s voice signaled that he had finished, that’s directly from a seasoned veteran. I don’t wish to cause any of you undue alarm, but we also have to worry about leeches. Lieutenant Johnson told me that the water is full of the pencil-sized sons-o-bitches. If we assault into deep water, it’s a given that they’ll be all over us, and we won’t be able to do much to keep them from biting us. If they bite you, I caution you not to pull them off. If you do, you’ll probably rip off their embedded foot in your flesh. That condition frequently results in an infection of some type—maybe blood poisoning or gangrene. I had leeches on me during my first combat tour in the Central Highlands with the 1st Cav Division. Despite that exposure, though, I’m still horrified at the thought of the little bloodsuckers attaching themselves to me. Yes, I admit it—I get the willies when they get on me. I know, though, that I can’t just pull them off. We must wait until we can use insect repellent or salt to make the leeches withdraw.

Morgan had instructed the supply sergeant to bring a chalkboard to the helipad. In fact, he had used it earlier in the morning to assist in explaining the staging procedures to the officers and non-commissioned officers of his subordinate platoons.

If Charlie Cong is occupying those strips of land when we arrive, he’ll have foxholes and bunkers, which he’ll use as fighting positions. Viet Cong foxholes are usually positioned two-to-three layers deep, so that they have overlapping fire. Thus, each foxhole can be protected by one or more other fighting positions. This means that if we’re forced to assault one of these defended strips, you can’t afford to concentrate on just one fighting position. If you want to survive, you must find the other enemy positions, and not expose yourself to enemy fire from those locations. It is fairly safe to assume that the VC will have fewer fighting positions in the interior parts of these strips, Morgan explained as he drew elongated, irregular shapes on the chalkboard to represent the strips of land and added rectangular-shaped bunkers around their periphery. We must be really careful when we….when we are approaching….approaching a strip with lots of…nippa palm on it, he continued haltingly.

Morgan appeared to be stunned. He was distracted because he spotted a soldier among the assembled troops, who was known to his fellow soldiers as Mouse. This was the first time that he had seen the soldier since the previous day. Mouse looked away immediately, but not before Morgan saw that his right eye was nearly swollen shut and that his bottom lip was split and swollen. Morgan was jolted back to the task at hand when one of the new troops asked, Sir, what is this nippa palm stuff that you’re talking about?

It’s a type of palm tree which has no trunk. Its fronds spread in a fan-shape from the ground. It only grows on dry ground above the water line, so if it’s present, then there’s a good chance the ground is also suitable for digging bunkers and foxholes, Morgan explained while he searched the faces among the assembled troops for Lieutenant Johnson, Mouse’s platoon leader. Just remember this, all of you! If we are taken under fire when we exit the choppers, we must put down a base of fire and rush the bunkers and foxholes. If there’s a point on the strip from which no fire is coming, then we must try to make our way through it so we can get behind the enemy. What we can’t do is freeze in the water with no cover. If we do, we’ll be picked-off. I’ve been assured that the Cobras and other gunships will blast the hell out of each strip before we assault it. In a meeting I attended at brigade headquarters two days ago on airmobile operations, we discussed today’s operation. I emphasized that we have to be inserted within 50 meters of any wood line. Some of the pilots objected, saying it was too risky for them. I reminded those assholes that they’re paid good money to take risks, and that inserting us 250-300 meters from the wood line, with us in water with no cover, more or less guarantees that we’ll take high casualties, Morgan explained as his eyes continued to search the faces of the assembled soldiers.

It was evident that his mind was on other matters when he yelled, Lieutenant Johnson! Yessir, Johnson responded quizzically as he emerged from the rear of the formation where he had been talking with his platoon sergeant. Could I see you privately for a minute? Morgan asked as he moved away from the chalkboard toward his jeep. Yessir, Johnson answered as he moved toward his commander.

Harrington, Morgan’s veteran radio/telephone operator, was standing near the jeep with two other men. Morgan hurriedly asked the men if they would give him and Johnson some space for a private conversation. After the group had moved a safe distance, the anxious commander wheeled around, drawing his face close to Johnson’s.

What in the hell happened to Mouse? he demanded in a tone that made Johnson’s voice quaver when he answered.

He was the victim of a blanket party last night Sir, Johnson answered as he swallowed and shuffled his feet.

Is that all you have to tell me? Morgan demanded, drawing so close to the lieutenant’s face that the tip of his steel helmet banged against the helmet of the visibly-shaken lieutenant. Johnson shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms outward, a gesture whose intent was good, but instead pushed the angry captain over the edge.

He grabbed Johnson by the collar with his left hand and pulled him upward and forward. Lieutenant, you and I are paid to be responsible. I find out that one of your men was beaten when I just happen to see his swollen face the next day? You’d better get some answers, and damn quick, or I’m going to shit in your mess kit!

You may not believe this, Sir, but Sergeant Adamly and I didn’t find out about this until a few minutes ago. In fact, Adamly and I were talking about this very issue just now when I heard you call for me. All I know at this point is that Mouse was beaten last night. Somebody threw a blanket over him after he went to bed, and then beat him—pretty severely, I might add. His ribs are so swollen and sore, he can hardly get around, but he won’t complain. He swears that he doesn’t know who beat him or why it was done. One of my other troops told Sergeant Adamly the grapevine has it that Mouse was beaten because he talked to you yesterday. Somebody thinks the two of you talked about the source of the drugs that were found in the barracks where Mouse sleeps. None of this is substantiated yet, Sir.

Didn’t Mouse get medical attention last night? Morgan asked, still trying to unravel the mystery.

Apparently not, Sir, Johnson added quickly.

I guess I overreacted, Dan. I owe you an apology, Morgan said in a softer tone. He was about to say more when Harrington came running toward him.

Sir, I just got a call from ‘Rhinestone 33’. Choppers are inbound, Harrington blurted out in an excited voice. Rhinestone 33 was the radio call sign for the officer within the battalion operations center who requested helicopters and other types of aircraft on the battalion’s behalf. Morgan felt his heart flip as it always did when he was about to load onto choppers for airmobile operations. There was always the nagging thought that each mission could be his last. Roger, put the word out to everyone to prepare for pick-up, Morgan instructed as he turned to retrieve his own pack and M-16 rifle from the back of his jeep.

In his pack he carried plastic-wrapped maps, C rations, an abbreviated personal hygiene kit, an extra pair of socks, a poncho liner, and a couple of smoke grenades. On his pistol belt, to which his pack was attached, he carried two, quart-size canteens and a survival knife. He had one fragmentation grenade taped to each of the front straps of his load-bearing harness. He carried an M-16 rifle on operations, leaving his .45 caliber pistol in the company arms room in the rear area. For his M-16, he carried 300 rounds of ammunition which were loaded into 20-round magazines and packed in a bandoleer that was slung around his neck and under his arm.

Loading onto the choppers went relatively smoothly, considering that airmobile operations were a new undertaking for the majority of Charlie Hunter, as the company had named itself long before Captain Morgan’s arrival as its commander. The last-minute training, however brief, had paid off.

Experience had taught Morgan to know his location at all times, if possible. Therefore, he followed the terrain features on his map as the choppers rose from the helipad and took his rifle company westward toward the Plain of Reeds. He was having a hard time concentrating, however, because his thoughts were with Mouse. He could neither dismiss the young soldier’s battered face from his thoughts nor could he stop blaming himself for having been so naïve. He promised himself that he would get to the bottom of this matter as soon as this operation was behind him.

Boom! Wham! Zzzt! Rat-tat-tat! Morgan heard the familiar sound of the cobra helicopters prepping the landing zone ahead of the laboring slicks. He quickly checked his map, looked through the windshield of the chopper in which he and his command group were riding, looked back at his map for final verification of their location; then, quickly stuffed the map inside his jungle fatigue shirt. He watched the cobras closely, looking for signs of tracers coming from the ground. This would be a sure sign that enemy soldiers were present and willing to fight. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw none.

Morgan had configured his company for pick-up so that his entire first platoon, half of the second platoon, and he and his small command group would be inserted in the first assault wave. Nine lift choppers, two Cobra attack helicopters, two light observation helicopters, also known as LOACHES, and two bravo model gunships had been allocated to Morgan’s parent battalion for these assaults. The battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Langen, had chosen Morgan’s company to conduct the first series of airmobile operations. The nine slicks could transport only half of Charlie Hunter in a single assault lift. Therefore, the plan was to conduct the first phase of the assault with roughly half of the company; then, to dispatch the helicopters back to the 9th Division Base Camp to pick up the remainder of the men. Morgan disliked this piece-meal effort, but was helpless to change it.

Prepare to un-ass this chopper, men! Morgan shouted as he slid from the helicopter seat, sat on the floor, and scooted forward so that his feet were hanging out, extending downward nearly reaching the helicopter’s left skid. Morgan looked ahead to see the first four ships hover laboriously with their skids almost touching the water. Then he saw the troops from the first platoon jump into the water. Some went completely under the water, but returned to the surface once they got their feet under them.

Morgan held his breath as he surveyed the nippa palm along the periphery of the long, narrow strip of land. No fire yet. Maybe Charlie’s not there this time. Damn, this place looks dangerous. Goddammit, they inserted the first platoon out too far from the tree line. They promised me they’d insert us closer. I’d best not try to force them to put the rest of us in closer at this point. That could put us in between the first platoon and the tree line, and could put us in a crossfire if the VC are hiding in the nippa palm, Morgan continued to mutter under his breath.

As the chopper beat its way closer to the water, he could see the troops of the first platoon making their way in chest-deep water toward the thick line of nippa palm, which was still more than 200 yards ahead of them.

Morgan continued to look ahead to the first chopper in this second group of five as the six troops leapt from the chopper’s skids into the water. The slick immediately behind it was slowly lowering to within 8-10 feet of the water, while the third chopper, the one in which Morgan was riding, was still 40-60 feet above the water. Morgan slipped from the chopper’s floor and stood on the skid. Next to him stood Harrington and his other radio telephone operator (RTO), Private Peters.

Just as the third and fourth choppers descended to within 15-20 feet of the water, all hell broke loose. Morgan could see a stream of fire zipping by the chopper in front of him as the Viet Cong opened up with small arms and heavy machine guns. He then saw the chopper immediately in front careen to the left and plunge into the water on its side. Realizing that the chopper had been critically damaged, some troops of the second platoon had already jumped. Morgan shouted, My God, no! as he saw the chopper fall onto some of the men in the water.

Morgan not only knew that a helicopter was very vulnerable while hovering at such a low altitude, but also that he sure as hell didn’t want to go down with it if it crashed. Jump! Goddammit, jump! he shouted to the five other men from Charlie Hunter, who were in the same helicopter. At that moment, he heard the pow, pow, pow, thump, thud of large caliber rounds going by the helicopter, with some slamming into its aluminum skin. Before he could jump from the skid on which he was standing, it was severed by enemy fire, spilling him and his two RTO’s into the water below from a height of about fifteen feet. As he fell, he heard Harrington yelling, but couldn’t understand him. There was too much noise and confusion for verbal communication, or for that matter, rational thinking. Everyone was thinking of survival first, then everything else after that. The Cobras were contributing to the noise-level by firing 2.75-inch rockets at the tree line and the bunkers. Adding to the thunderous noise was the helicopter above him, which was beating the air with its rotor in a frantic effort to regain altitude and forward momentum. Morgan took a deep breath and shut everything else out of his mind, as the water below raced toward his face.

He hit the water nearly headfirst. The impact drove his steel helmet onto his head so hard, he was afraid of losing consciousness. At this point, he was thankful that the water was deep. The cushioning effect of the water probably saved his life, because the force of the impact carried him to the muddy bottom. He began scrambling immediately to right himself and recapture the breath of air that had been forced from his lungs by the impact.

Charlie Six, Charlie Six! Can you read me, Charlie Six? These were the first words that Morgan heard when he came back to