Soldiers Such as We

By Frank E. Owens

This book is a fictional account of the experiences of four diverse service men during the Vietnam War portrayed against a historically accurate background. It describes how they cope with the challenges that arise for each of them at the peak of the war (1967- 1968). The book emulates a class of books written on World War II such as John P. Marquands So Little Time, Nicholas Montsarrats The Cruel Sea, Evelyn Waughs, Officers and Gentlemen and James Joness trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 22, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462803125

Frank E. Owens

Lieutenant Colonel Frank E. Owens, U.S. Army (Retired) is a graduate of the University of Kentucky and holds an MS degree from the University of Arizona. He has published numerous articles in professional military magazines. He served in Communications/Electronics positions in Korea, Europe, and South Vietnam. He is a graduate of the U.S. Army Command and General Staff College and was a member of the Faculty at the Army War College. After his retirement he worked for The Mitre Corporation as an Information Systems Consultant. Colonel Owens lives with his wife, the former Evelyn Schatz, in Ashburn, Virginia.

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Copyright © 1994, 2003 by Frank E. Owens.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author‘s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

PREFACE

DOOMSDAY

TUCSON

FRISCO/TRAVIS

DOOMSDAY—2

WILLIE HOGAN— COMMAND SERGEANT MAJOR—U.S. ARMY

TOSSA DE MAR

VIVIAN

DOOMSDAY—3

PFC JIMMY JOHNSON— CUBA, KENTUCKY

DOOMSDAY—4

SECOND TIME AROUND

THE WAY OVER

THE DRAGON LADY

TALKING BEER IN PLEIKU

CHAPLAINS

NHA TRANG

DOOMSDAY—5

BARTY

BOB HOPE’S COMING

INTERLUDE

TET 1968

THE SIGNAL BRIGADE COMMANDER

HAWAII

MAJOR VAN

THOUGHTS

DOOMSDAY—6

THE CREOLE

KHE SANH

BANGKOK

KHE SANH AFTERMATH

DOOMSDAY—7

CAM RANH BAY

ILL WIND

NKP

TONI

THE WAY BACK

TAPS

HOME AT LAST

This book is dedicated to the following Non-Commissioned Officers

and Enlisted Men who have served their country faithfully and

efficiently in Korea, Vietnam or other God- forsaken places. They

have thereby contributed much to the welfare of the American people.

Their contributions for the most part have gone unrecognized—except

perhaps for the admiration and esteem of the soldiers, sailors, airmen

or marines who served under them and of the officers who were

fortunate enough to have served with them:

PREFACE

THIS BOOK, THOUGH fiction, is written for the three million American men and women who served honorably in the Vietnam War. It describes the impact of the war on a cross section of those who served and their families.

The story of the typical soldier in Vietnam has been generally untold. Rather, the public has been flooded with endless texts devoted to the tens and hundreds of servicemen who couldn’t cope with the situation. By contrast, the stories of the hundreds of thousands who faced the war head-on have been, for the most part, ignored by the media. For example, the story of the one company that broke down and refused to fight has been publicized extensively while the stories of the hundreds of company level units that did their duty effectively time after time have in general been forgotten.

Aberrations like My Lai have often been portrayed as typical and the officers responsible for it glamorized falsely as heroes. The fact is that there were thousands of brave, loyal, courageous, efficient, and humane young officers who simply served their country as they were expected to. When these young men returned home, many of them were made to feel ashamed of their honorable service. They were often told that they had lost the war—though they inflicted defeat after defeat on the enemy tactically. The war was lost all right, but not by these men.

Hindsight tells us that our national objectives were ill-defined by our political leaders at the time and that our military leaders were inclined to accept this situation and go along with the status quo instead of insisting on a viable course of action. As a result, we drifted along for years in a no-win endeavor.

Finally, we decided as a nation that we were not willing to pay the price required to keep South Vietnam afloat. Our leaders decided it was not in our best interests to destroy and conquer North Vietnam though we had the power to do so at any time. Instead, we abandoned the freedom-loving South Vietnamese—along with the corrupt few who had taken advantage of us—to a glorious life under that great patriot and soldier General Giap. Their new life was so glorious in fact that since the fall of Saigon, thousands upon thousands of Vietnamese have fled their country, enduring endless hardships, in order to live as free people. Perhaps we taught the South Vietnamese something after all!

To my fellow veterans I say: Those of you who survived the war and those who died did not serve in vain. Above all else, we were true to our oaths. The stain on the honor of our country lies with those who were not strong enough to cope.

DOOMSDAY

SINCE THE TET, Hue, and Khe Sanh episodes in early 1968, the situation in Nam had been rather tame. In the immediate aftermath of TET, visiting civilian VIPs had been conspicuous by their absence. Now, six months later, they began to drift back into the theater for inspection visits of one kind or another.

Thus it was that doomsday came about. A high-level civilian from the Pacific Command HQ in Hawaii came to visit the First Signal Brigade. He wanted to inspect the High Frequency Radio Site which was located in the boonies at a place called Dong Ba Tin about halfway between Nha Trang and Cam Rahn Bay. The radio site had recently been expanded with the installation of a large electronically rotated log periodic antenna to permit longrange operation literally around the world.

Only a few of these antennas had been manufactured and fewer still had been installed and were in operation. This was the attraction for the civilian VIP and it fell to Major George Wilson to escort the VIP to the site and to keep him from causing any problems that would interfere with the mission performance of the signal brigade.

The civilian was the arrogant pompous type and made it clear that the only reason he associated with the military was because there was a war. On the plus side, because of the high-rank equivalency of the VIP, Major Wilson was able to lay on a chopper for the trip. He decided to make the trip useful by arranging for an intermediate stop on the return trip at Cam Rahn Bay. The new Area Communications Center being built there was almost ready to begin operation, needing only a final tweak by his installation team.

He planned to take Sergeant Major Hogan, Master Sergeant Barton, and Private First Class Johnson along to do this task. This would save them three or four days a trip by road would require up and back. Besides, Barton had led the installation team that had installed the antenna at Dong Ba Tin and deserved the praise that was due when the civilian saw what a good job they had accomplished out in the jungle in the middle of nowhere.

The trip down to the radio site was uneventful and the inspection of the site and the antenna went very well. The VIP was impressed with the installation and seemed to lose a bit of his arrogance as he happily discussed the technical operation with Barton and the site NCOIC.

They were all feeling a bit pleased with themselves when all hell broke loose shortly after the chopper took off for the return trip. Before they had gained the normal cruising altitude, they were raked by small arms fire and a rocket or two.

It was probably an RPG-7 that got them—the pilot had strayed from the normal SOP and stayed too low over the jungle near the site for too long. Since that point had been a low-intensity area with little enemy activity, they were taken off guard by the attack. The ubiquitous Charlie was there apparently waiting patiently for just such an opportunity.

The pilot skillfully used the auto-rotation technique to set the craft down after the engine was hit, but still they smashed into the ground hard and all aboard were dazed for a moment or two by the impact. Major Wilson estimated that they were no more than 5 to 10 miles from the radio site, but in the dense jungle, it was the same as being 100 miles away.

The copilot had gotten out a very short mayday message before they hit but there was no certainty that it would be received since they were so low when they were attacked and the signal would be attenuated by the jungle canopy and so would not travel far. It was also unlikely that anyone at Dong Ba Tin would have seen the chopper go down even though they might have heard the gunfire. No doubt about it the survivors were in a tough spot.

In fact, the impact had been even harder than Wilson thought. The door gunner apparently had unsnapped his seatbelt too soon and was dead, his neck broken. The copilot was unconscious. Wilson, the pilot, Hogan, Barton, Johnson and the civilian were not injured.

They quickly evacuated the chopper and took refuge on a small spit of land in the middle of a stream on which several fallen trees provided cover and protection of a sort. Barty dragged along the door gunner’s M-60 machine gun and Sergeant Major Hogan carried a box of ammo for it. Jimmy Johnson and the pilot carried the copilot over and laid him in the shade of a tree. Major Wilson took Barty’s M-16 rifle and handed his .45-caliber automatic to the civilian.

Hey, I can’t use this. I’m a non-combatant! the civilian chattered. He was coming unglued fast. It was clear that he could not handle the situation because he simply did not have the training or experience to deal with what he now faced.

Get me out of here! he shouted at Wilson. In response, Wilson gave him a backhand slap across the face, and, grasping his shoulders, shook him hard.

You better calm down and think about using that pistol fast— otherwise, I’ll have Sgt. Major Hogan throw your ass out of here and you can take your chances by surrendering to our dear Cong friends who will be showing up any minute now. Make your choice—fast!

The civilian gulped once or twice and finally said, How do you take the safety off this damn thing? Willie showed him how to work the slide and reload the .45 and gave him a spare clip of ammo.

They had about 10 more minutes to prepare their position before Charlie arrived to inspect the downed craft. Barty heard them coming and gave a chopping hand signal to silence the small, shaken, group of Americans.

The enemy troops did not appear to be experienced veterans since they trotted into view apparently full of themselves and made loud exclamations to each other as they caught sight of the destroyed chopper. It had not yet occurred to them that there might be survivors.

Suddenly, as they clambered over the wreckage, one man, perhaps the leader, saw that there was only one dead man in the aircraft. He glanced around sharply and raised his AK-47 towards the stream.

Barty, on Major Wilson’s signal, cut him down with the M-60 along with three or four of the others. The rest of the enemy soldiers quickly retreated to the safety of the tree line.

There had been about fifteen or twenty VCs in the group— not counting those zapped by Barty—Wilson estimated they were still outnumbered three or four to one. He knew it would not take Charlie long to get reorganized and come after the defensive position occupied by the Americans. Given the small amount of ammunition available to his group, Wilson judged they could not expect to hold out very long if the enemy made a concentrated attack. The odds were stacked against him—that was for sure. Unless help arrived by some miracle, there was a high probability that none of them would survive.

Wilson’s face contorted in anguish. His children would grow up never really knowing him. His wife, Madelyn, would have to manage without him. He would never again reach over and feel the warmth of her body. Madelyn … sweet Madelyn.

TUCSON

ONLY ONE OR two of the people coming and going through the airport corridor noticed or were conscious of the couple embracing in what was an obvious farewell kiss. The woman suddenly burst into tears, and the man, dressed in the uniform of an army major, patted her shoulder quickly and involuntarily said, There, there. You’re a good girl, don’t cry. These were the words with which he usually pacified their youngest daughter when she was upset about something.

They both laughed then—realizing instantly the recognized emotion on the one hand and the urgent effort to comfort on the other, even though the words were inappropriate. Somehow this helped them both get through the painful process of the farewell.

We’ll miss you, she said tearfully.

Take care of yourself and the kids, he replied.

Goodbye, goodbye … He turned and walked towards the plane trying not to cry himself.

Goodbyes, he thought—how many of them he seemed to have gone through in his relatively short life. They were always rough, each new one seemingly more so than the last. An army career was fraught with travel and change. As a professional soldier, he had coped with many partings in the past and had many more to experience—if he survived this tour, that is.

His thoughts shifted back quickly to his wife. It was very unusual for Madelyn to cry. Only once or twice in the ten years they had been married could he remember that she cried. It both touched him and assured him that she was still in love with him.

Unfortunately, in the past, he had tended to take her for granted. After all, she had stayed with him these last ten years, through good times and bad. She had borne him wonderful children, two girls and two boys. They had a good sex life—they still enjoyed making love. But she was not demonstrative like many women were. She rarely made a show of affection and never praised him, at least not to his face. She was a very competent woman and a good mother, perhaps a bit strict with the children. The bottom line was that she could take care of herself. She was not at all the clinging-vine type. That was one of the reasons he had asked her to marry him.

As it had turned out, she never caused him to neglect his military duties in order to do some household chores. He knew he was no bargain from that standpoint. He took no joy or relaxation, as some men did, from cutting grass, puttering around in the garden or working around the house. Thus, if there was any neglect, it had been with respect to his family duties, not with his military career.

Of course, he always tried to do his best at both. Yet, he knew that many soldiers exerted much more effort in their family responsibilities than he did. Still, he clung—probably erroneously—to the traditional view that by serving the country in the army to the best of his ability, he was serving the best interests of his family as well.

He often thanked God for giving him a wife who was a true helpmate and who was willing to put up with his own shortcomings.

Before he realized it, he was on board the aircraft. As he settled into his seat fastening his seatbelt, he gazed idly out the window knowing that Madelyn was still waiting out there but unable to see her.

He remembered a similar situation years ago. He was looking out through another window—was it fifteen years already? That time, it had been the window of a train and he could clearly see his father standing on the platform at the terminal in Fort Knox.

His father was standing there big, tough looking, and proud in his uniform—a row of chevrons running all the way down his sleeve from shoulder to wrist. He was a master sergeant and had seven or eight three-year-service stripes and six overseas-service bars as well. George knew the old man was proud of his second- lieutenant son, even though George was as green a shavetail as any who ever wore the uniform. What surprised him were the tears he could clearly see running down that stern face. He sensed that despite his exterior toughness the old man dearly loved him. It was 1952 and the Korea war was still dragging on.

George Wilson, 2nd/Lt. USA, was on his way to Frozen Chosen as the GIs called it by then. He was a little afraid but his thirst to experience what he had read and heard so much about outweighed his fear. He was too young and inexperienced to know what war was all about yet. Some books like the Naked and the Dead, which he had read, were beginning to educate some young Americans to the fact that there was really little glory in war. But, to truly learn, one must experience firsthand what war was really like—George was going to get that experience.

He was bound for Ft. Lewis, Washington for shipment to Korea. His father had suggested he take the train across country rather than fly. This would let him see what the country was like west of the Mississippi River. Since he had never been out west, and since the train was also cheaper, he decided to follow his father’s advice. It proved to be a wise choice.

The trip from Ft. Knox to Chicago took only a few hours. In Chicago he boarded a Northern Pacific Express that carried a dome car as well as coaches, sleepers, dining and lounge cars. The trip to Seattle took two days and he thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Not only did he get to see the great Northwest—it was and is by the way breathtaking—he also got the chance to meet and socialize with a lot of new people.

In those days it was almost impossible for a serviceman in uniform to buy a drink in a public bar. The lounge car on the train was full of businessmen, particularly on the short hop from Chicago to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Every time George got his drink down near the bottom of his glass, a new one appeared. The men were friendly to him and went out of their way to be nice when they learned he was bound for Korea. Most of them were veterans of WWII and they knew what he was in for. He got a lot of free advice but it was all well meant and he enjoyed hearing the war stories.

In Milwaukee, many of the businessmen left the train but a new group of travelers got on. Though they were as friendly as the old group, George felt that he had had more than his quota to drink for the evening and sought out the relative quiet of the dome car.

Seated in the dome car, he was able to relax and look out at the stars and the faint shapes of the barely discernible Wisconsin countryside whisking by. It would have been nice, he thought, to have some soft, sweet, female beauty next to him on the seat to reach out and cuddle with. She would enhance the effect of the drinks, the click-clack of the coach wheels, and the scenery for him. Alas, unlike the experiences of Mike Hammer, Shell Scott and other heroes of popular fiction of that day, this was not to be for Wilson—at least not this night.

He drifted off to sleep and when he awoke, it was daylight. He shaved, cleaned up and sought out the dining car. He had a great breakfast—ham and eggs over easy (cooked just right), raisin toast, and excellent coffee. He smiled at the memory—your airline meals just didn’t stack up with those dining car feasts. His opinion was soon confirmed as the stewardess brought him back to the present by plopping down in front of him a small tray containing scrambled eggs and two small pork links. Wilson realized that they had taken off and were on the way to Frisco. In all honesty though, he thought, the airline coffee wasn’t so