Saigon Summer: Corruption & Murder During/After the Tet Offensive

By Robert M. Pacholik

   SAIGON SUMMER is a fictionalized account of real events in Saigon's Black Market, during/after the Tet Offensive 1968. Five military photographers cover the war in frontline combat. Desperately needed supplies are being stolen and sold to both sides? These men want to know  who operates the Saigon Black  Market? They suffer at the hands of military personnel who censor news and photos, and discipline them for their efforts. Two  murders follow  in close succession.   Evil  and corruption lurk in Saigon's Black Market  in 1968. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert M. Pacholik
• Release date: Jan 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780988177352

Book preview

Chapter  1

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As quickly as the firefight started, it stopped. Then it began again, a hellish inferno of smoke and noise.  Mud and dirt clumps flying everywhere.  Shrapnel from exploding mortar rounds punctuating the sky.  Individual bullets that snapped and buzzed past one’s face with all the heat and sizzle of a Friday morning diner grill.

At the edge of the Landing Zone, a small grass fire sparkled and hissed as it wafted smoke across this devilish scene of utter confusion. Smoldering bamboo stalks emblazoned by machine gun fire or 2.75 mm rockets that pocked the rice paddy, sputtered and flamed, then died.

Specialist 5, Alfred H. Ludwinski zigzagged across the hot LZ snapping pictures with one of his three 35 mm cameras. He adjusted focus, changed apertures, and clicked to different shutter speeds as he ran.

Lug as he was called, moved around the body of a crumpled American, and past another GI shot dead moments before. He tried to steady himself, tried to focus, but he snapped off two careless frames, then zigzagged again.

Lug stumbled over a cluster of three enemy dead, and tried to compose the carnage. He gagged instinctively at the jumble of arms, legs, brain tissue, and shredded torsos still leaking blood from their innards.

Suck it up and get the shot, lowlife, Lug thought to himself, knowing that was how the Army viewed him, as useless and expendable.

You all right? Sergeant Simmons of 2nd Platoon yelled to Lug, as Simmons’ gaze swept over the dead, looking for wounded or stragglers still trying to escape from the half-block by block-sized kill zone.

Yeah fucking grand, Lug said, moving away from two dead bodies, one from each side, who perished in a bayonet fight. 

More shots rang out as scattered members of 2nd Platoon tried to find a leader. One of two lieutenants did his best to gather up what he could of the grunts, and make something out of this Vietnam air assault insertion, Friday morning, 06:03:20 hrs, February 17, 1968, III Corps Tactical Zone, LZ Boomer, South Vietnam.

3rd Platoon, guide on me and regroup, the other 2nd Lieutenant said, with a paralyzing treble in his tenor voice. He repeated the command three times, but nobody could actually hear him.

Lug stopped for a moment and looked up to see a string of UH1-D, Huey helicopters slapping at the air above. They groaned under the weight of the reinforcement platoon disgorging from the olive drab aluminum airships. In the blink of an eye, Lug saw clearly what a battlefield was for the very first time.

Daily.  Repetitive.  Instant death.

Fucking idiots really stepped on it this time, Lug muttered, as he cranked back the spent film spool into the lightproof metal canister, ejected the roll, and inserted a fresh roll of black & white still print film into the Nikon F.

The dustoff (medevac) helicopters hung in the air like hovering buzzards. Waiting their turn to land, picking up as many of the wounded as they could load in.  Making a rattlesnake’s-ass-run to save as many as they could. Maybe 75% made it. Five percent or more died en route.

Fucking chopper boys are #1, Lug said acidly, using the fractured Vietnamese slang term for courage and flying skill. He raised his camera again, snapped two more stop action shots of them landing, shuddering, and struggling to takeoff.

To his right, Lug heard a sharp whistling thukk as an AK-47 round hit the young officer standing not three feet away. The newby 2nd lieutenant convulsed in a cloud of splattering blood, then fell over.  Shot in mid-back by a VC sniper maybe 100 meters away.

Lug turned, refocused his long lens camera to pick up any further muzzle flashes from  a patch of elephant grass, but Luke the Gook was already gone. Firing two or three more careless shots, to cover his hasty, sloppy retreat.

Typical VC tactics. Lug thought Hit us without warning, then disappear into the triple canopy jungle. Fire at us from squalid little villages, and city streets. Or from small roadside stands. Hit us again, and then disappear into the dense underbrush, and keep hitting us day-and-night, day-after-day-after-day, after-day until the Americans gave up and went home.

The two surviving staff sergeants barked out contradictory orders to their men. ...clear this landing zone.  take cover and ...put some fire on those fuckers.  ...create a quick defensive perimeter to protect the squad.  ...disperse fucking everywhere.

What the fuck? Lug said loudly.

A smelly, clanking Armored Personnel Carrier (APC) at the edge of another LZ, oozed across the manure-stench of a rice paddy and pumped out .50 caliber rounds into the distant tree line. The index-finger sized shells shredded everything back for 10 meters into the bamboo grove, and the adjoining stand of banana plants.

Lug noticed a wounded grunt bleeding from a ghastly star-shaped shoulder wound, and he moved closer to get the man’s name, photo, and unit number for the Hometown News Service system.

The wounded infantryman glared menacingly at Lug, then spit out a litany of obscenities that would have blistered Lucifer’s tongue. The man raised his rifle and aimed it directly at Lug’s forehead.

Well fuck that idea, Lug said, turning yet again, as two or three more rifle rounds skittered and bounced into the standing water next to him.  If he stopped moving, they would kill him too.

Lug was pretty well scared shitless now, as his eyesight started to blur. He moved this way, then that, like a man running crazy-quilt across a giant S in the mud.

You there, wit the cameras. What the hell are you doing here?’ a newly-arrived 1st lieutenant said, waving his arm toward a ring of infantrymen, trying to unwind them into a skirmish line in this search and clear" mission.

5th Log Combat Photo, sir, Lug blurted out, sprinting toward the cover of the APC, and trying to sense where Luke and his Gooks would strike next.

Lug had been in country 17 days, and was getting used to the intensity, the terror, the confusion of daily combat assaults that were, ....fucked up beyond all recognition. (FUBAR for short). His WWII grand-father had taught him that word.

Where’s your rifle, dumbass, the 1st Lieutenant barked at Lug, as assorted rounds started to zero in on confused infantrymen lying prone in the paddy, waiting for leadership. 

Not issued as rifle, sir, Lug said, and he stared blankly as another young butter bar 2nd lieutenant turned and ran toward the firing.

Lug raised his 80/200 lens and searched for movement in the tree line. He barely heard the hollow krumpp of a mortar arcing toward the bunched-up men who scattered in every direction.

The bone-dumb grunts were everywhere. Most were fucking new guys (FNGs), or dumb-ass rear-echelon mother fuckers (REMFs) who got pulled in hastily as replacements for the infantry companies. Most had been in-country less than ten days. They were the first to die.

God-damn it, what the hell are you people waiting for? another staff sergeant yelled as he dove into the muck, and pulled his helmet close down on his head.

The first of three VC mortars krumpped into the paddy and sent up an eight foot high cloud of green rice stalks, sticky filthy mud, and  the shrieking body parts of men caught in this small mushroom-shaped cloud of death. The second mortar round came closer to the APC , which suddenly came to life and headed zigzag across the open paddy, firing  at anything or anybody, who then fired back.

From overhead, two air assault helicopter gunships passed low over the troops and opened up with a barrage of mini-gun fire, spraying spent shell casings, and a rotor wash strong enough to tear the underwear off a barracuda.  They destroyed the small banana grove, the tree line, then popped up, swooped down, dodging and weaving like maniacal children riding an invisible roller coaster. They attacked any hiding place while covering three of the four sides of the LZ . When they were finished, only the dead remained. Except  for the friendlies. 

Lug fell down flat in the mud, zoomed in as the first of the two gunships made its second or third pass over the troops and shot four seconds of motor-drive exposure at ten frames per second. The lead American pilot’s face, complete with brown subdued aviator sunglasses, glared in anger and glee at the prospect of an air-to-ground gunfight. The two helos defied gravity with their hinking and jinking  maneuvers over a terrified enemy.

In the distance, Lug could make out the shape of the Colonel’s command and control helicopter, bright and shiny, flying over to check on the proceedings. A few seconds later, Lug was on his side and fired six more shots with the Nikon 55 mm lens and dark orange filters, to turn morning light into early afternoon shadows.

Keep coming fucker, keep coming, keep right on. This is Robert Capa shit, and I’m getting it, Lug said.  Two seconds later, a stray AK round passed within inches of his face, and sweat began to pour down his neck in sheets. He blinked several times to keep his glasses clean.

One second later, Lug felt the daily knot of combat firefight nausea, and fear grind up his guts. Lug’s bowels started to rumble and the only solution to that was to get up and run somewhere. So he ran.

From behind him somewhere Lug was aware of another staff sergeant running alongside him yelling, ...regrouping  over there mother fucker. Get with the program troop.

Roger that, Lug answered, but he did not stop moving.

Not infantry, 5th Log Combat Photo, Lug muttered under his breath. He slid down into the mud once more and he grabbed the edges of his helmet, his face inches from the putrid mush. A third and then a fourth VC mortar whizzed over him and exploded about 12 meters behind  the second APC.

Fuck you doing here asshole?  some sergeant yelled, but Lug got up and sprinted toward the skirmish line.

Now the Americans opened up with M16A-1 rifles, and M-60 machine guns. The VC returned fire with Chinese-made AK-47s and two more mortar tubes. The jagged staccato of close-quarter combat lasted maybe 90 seconds. Then nothing.

Lug was up on his elbows shooting with the motor drive as more mortars and now hand grenades got thrown by both sides.

The earlier Lieutenant who repeated the rally on me command was completely gone. And things stayed way too quiet.

Lug’s hands were now wet and shaking like a catatonic fit. Both in a different rhythms.

How fucking crazy is this? Lug said out loud. One fucking hand  doing the polka and the other hand shaking to an Irish Jig? I didn’t tell them to do no fucking shaking. 

Wiping his right glasses lens  with his hand to clear it, Lug said, You are so fucked. And then he almost had to chuckle, it was that psychotic.

What was all this? A minute and 16 seconds? Two tops? Lug recounted to his terrified self.  Jesus how many are down? Dead? Wounded? Which direction are we going? VC or NVA? Where the fuck are we? What’s my story?

The questions rattled off in his brain like the high speed printhead on a UPI teletype machine gone fucking mad.

Assorted shots. Then nothing.  For maybe 1.31416 milliseconds. Then all hell started up on two sides of him. Lug kept his camera firing just as fast as the M-60 was spitting out used shell casings, and now he was pissing himself without any control on  that either.

*  *  *

Lug had landed at the 90th Replacement Battalion at Bien Hoa, 16 ¾ days ago at 04:13:34 hours. He was in line to get some chow when two grizzled scummy grunts from 9th Infantry walked up to him in the chow line.

Yo, are you Ludwinovich or some shit like that? the sergeant with an M-203 (rifle/grenade launcher combo) on his shoulder, said. He was 22.

Ludwinski, Alfred H, Lug said, only two feet from the powdered eggs and coffee.

You’re photo right? Hammel asked.

Yeah, I do stills and motion picture, and my secondary is a lab tech, Lug said moving up one guy closer to the toast.

Well, our guy got killed yesterday, so you’re with us, Bancheska said.

Now?

Yes now, where’s your shit?

My ruck is in the pile, I’d have to find it.

You got any gear?

No, I get that when I get assigned.

Okay, Deiner had a lab and cameras. We’ll find it. Grab some toast and let’s go.

What about some coffee?

You’ll get some when you report to HQ, 9th. 

Who are you?

We’re Ninth Infantry Division.  Old Reliables, you know, the Octofoil Division.

What about orders and a rack for some sleep?

We’ll handle all that, now go get your duffel. That’s an order.

*  *  *

Firing stopped for a heartbeat and some men moved cautiously across the open rice paddy to form a deformed assault line. The APCs were along both edges to provide flanking fire, and continued to fire out to 150-200 meters.

All that remained was to kill Viet Cong guerillas or North Vietnamese Army Regulars wherever and whenever they found them in South Vietnam.  And do it all again, all day, every day for the next year.  For Lug, it was to photograph all of it, not get killed, and write it up. And not fucking blow apart doing it.

Third firefight in four days, you know, Lug  said out loud to himself, as he reached for his last roll of film for the black & white camera on his left shoulder.  I know, I know, he repeated to himself.

He stood up and started moving.

Everything stank. Spent powder from the rifles, sweat, blood splatter, the dead, urine, smoke, even Lug’s eyes were draining all over his jungle fatigues. That slime was the worst.

Had he been hit and not know it? Why was he slobbering on himself? Was it weeping? For the dead? Himself? Shit. FTA Army? This place. The war.

14 Feb 68, 06:05:41hrs., Delta Company, Wolfhounds, snipers, mortars, 3-7 dead, ‘dustoffs’, fucking mud, 20-30 fames of useable stuff, chaos, noise, no rifle to fight with,. Gonna die here for sure.

As he stabbed at the paper with his one each, official issue, US Army, pen, ballpoint, black ink, push-button, Lug noticed that the printed letters he wrote were upper and lower case combined. Some were backwards, other near lying down. Some below the line, others soaring up into the previous line. Some boxy and others elegant penmanship of one or two letters before swirls and periods, and question marks were everywhere. And boxes of some kind with round walls, and slanting edges that did not touch. Other pieces were zigzags that spun out to the edges of the paper, and continued onto the back of the first page.

There was nothing there he could decipher later.

Get out of that LZ and move toward the tree line. Third Platoon, get through that elephant grass 75 meters your west, and engage. First platoon close in on Hill 604, 100 meters  your east, and link up with Second platoon, the Radio Telephone Operator  would repeat to his lieutenant  who struggled to untangle the snarled up, wet topographic map, searching for  the two letter, and six digit, YTD coordinates.

Shit was still flying everywhere when the artillery rounds stated coming in over the Forward Observers (FOs), Lug pointed out.

The FOs adjusted and called for two rounds for effect, then adjusted again, and called for three High Explosive  rounds to be walked up the forward slope of that hill, fucker."

Roger that, double nickel

Get your asses moving down there, and get on with it, Bullwhip 6 is out," the command chopper radioed to the ground units, who were still taking fire.

Copy that, Chickenshit  6, Lug muttered. 

Nine and on half hours later, after four small firefights the sun began to set in the Iron Triangle. The lieutenants and sergeants gathered up their sweat-soaked, dehydrated, and terrified men, reformed their tattered squads into platoons, and reformed the bedraggled platoons to form Delta Company.

They had crossed an open rice paddy adjacent to a small village in daylight to no avail. They had plowed through a two-block square stand of eight foot-high elephant grass littered with punji pits, and snakes strung in the trees.  Four casualties there. From there they probed a small hill with entrenched machine gun pits, and tangle- foot all over the hill. Six  wounded there. Mortars in the tree line injured two. The skirmishes amounted to nothing, so they called for the Hueys and extraction.

Six confirmed dead, eight others wounded, one man missing. Blood trails and body parts scattered across two acres of burned grassland. It was not what the Colonel wanted.

Tomorrow they would do it all over again, somewhere else.

And Lug would have to cover it, and keep moving.

As Lug walked to the waiting Huey, two cameras clanked noisily against his chest. His bowels were about to explode, so he quickly sat down on the floor of the chopper and tried to think calm thoughts. His feet dangled over the bottom edge of the chopper cabin, just inches from the long tubular skids that supported the metal airship.

Only 348 days left to go.

Five to ten stock combat action sequence photos, write it up, get approval, release it to a highly skeptical Press. Then do it all again, tomorrow. 

Just shit, was all Lug could say quietly to himself.

Tomorrow he was scheduled to go in with another company of the 25h Infantry Division in an area called The Parrot’s Beak.

It don’t mean nothing, he whispered ever so quietly to himself.

Today was over.

But tomorrow was about to begin.

*  *   *   *

Chapter  2 

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Specialist  4,  Sam Norwood’s left eyelid snapped open with a start.  It was somewhere near dawn, she was long gone, and he was snarled in the sheets of a single bed not two blocks from the downtown port on the Saigon River. 

Through an open window Sam listened as a WWII-vintage cargo ship blasted the semi-luminescent waterway with its horn and swirling searchlights. The ship chugged and sputtered its way down the Mekong River toward Cape St. Jacques and the South China Sea.  It was Friday, Feb. 14, 1968, 05:37:18 hrs, twelve days into the VC/NVA’s massive Tet Offensive on every province and city in South Vietnam.

Sam tried to sit up and remember some of the details of yesterday. He had come in from the field with six rolls of 35 mm color film, and two rolls of  2 ¼ x2 ¼ black and white film shot during 4 days with the Wolfhounds of 2nd Battalion,  25th Infantry Division.  She was French or Thai or something. He must have eaten and paid for several watered-down Saigon Teas, and his photo nemesis, Private First Class, Dominic Pantinelli, was in the Infectious Disease Ward of  24rd Evacuation Hospital with a punji stick through the arch of his left foot.

Norwood smiled a t the thought that Dominic, the better of the two still photo guys on the team, had stepped on the shit-encrusted stake while shooting a "search and clear’’ mission with the 3rd Brigade of the 82nd Airborne.  That’s when Sam’s own pounding alcohol, dope, and beer headache