Revelation: A Novel of the Vietnam War

By Ned Ricks

"Ricks captures Vietnam's dust, heat, and 'fog of war' as only someone who was there can do. His book took me back in a heartbeat: It was so vivid I could almost SMELL it again!"-Ross Rainwater, LTC, Aviation, USA (Retired), 1st Cavalry Division, 197071

Set in the dust, heat, forests and mud of Vietnam's Central Highlands, Revelation is a story drawn from actual historical events. The conflict, the action is real.

When Army Captain John Davis gets the chance at his own command during the latter days of the Vietnam War, he eagerly accepts the job. Unknown to him, the men of his new unit murdered the officer who had the command before him. These killers have not been identified or caught. Davis' new boss never even told him of the crime.

Dealing with internal unit conflicts, external bureaucratic indifference and his own fears and weaknesses, he must still carry on with the assigned mission. In a series of dangerous situations, Davis is at risk, but are these the hazards of war or more murder attempts? Will he ever be reunited with the woman he loves?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 14, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595787739

Ned Ricks

Ned B. Ricks was commissioned into the US Army from college. His military service included duty in Germany, Panama and Vietnam. In 1993, he retired from the military with 25 years commissioned service. His personal photos of the Vietnam War are included in the National Vietnam Veterans Art Museum in Chicago.

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Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

This book is dedicated to my guiding star, wife and life partner Patricia Bickett, without whose encouragement this book would never have been completed, and to my children, Angela Rose and Elizabeth, to whom I bequeath this story.

For they are the spirits of devils, working miracles, which go forth unto the kings of the earth and of the whole world, to gather them to the battle of that great day of God Almighty…And He gathered them together into a place called…Armageddon.

—REVELATION, XVI: 14, 16, King James Version.

Megiddo was the famous battlefield, Armageddon, which gives its name to the Great Final Battle of the Ages…It was at Megiddo, in the First World War, that General Allenby (1918) broke the power of the Turkish Army. More blood has been shed around this hill than any other spot on earth, it is said.

—Halley’s Bible Handbook, Zondervan Publishing House, Grand Rapids,

Michigan, 1965

Preface  

This is a work of fiction. It is based upon true happenings in the Central Highlands of Vietnam in 1971. I have populated this book with men and women who are mixtures of aspects of people I have known, those I have read about or seen in movies and those I purely made up. The characters are the product of my imagination. Any resemblance between them and any person living or dead is coincidental.

There actually was a Troop C, 1st Squadron, 10th Cavalry, and there actually was a Troop Commander killed, or fragged in the soldiers’ slang. Camp Radcliff, Recon Support Base Buffalo, Fire Support Base Blackhawk and Fire Support Base Armageddon were real places. Much of the action is based upon true occurrences, although not always at the place or time depicted. The story was more important than an exact history.

Acknowledgements  

Many people helped me in process of writing this book. Thanks to all those who read drafts of it, both early and late: my brothers—John and Robert; a remarkable lady with a eye for detail, balance and tone—Margaret Wolfe; and my old comrade who leant a veteran’s eye and support—Ross Rainwater. From their suggestions, ideas and notes, I edited, re-wrote and otherwise polished this book. If the resulting work is still flawed, that is my fault, not theirs.

This book could not have been written without the inspiration of real life exploits of Buffalo Soldiers, the troopers of the US Army’s 9th and 10th Cavalry. May we all meet at Fiddler’s Green.

PROLOGUE  

Everything was noise and vibration to the young Army captain as he tried vainly to find to a comfortable position in his seat, but the big C-130 Air Force cargo plane was not really designed with comfort in mind. He sat in an aluminum tube rack with nylon strapping that had no soft parts, and he had none either after these weeks.

The officer rotated his head and shrugged his shoulders to ease the stiffness, but nothing seemed to help. After all, this wasn’t a cushy civilian airline. The plane’s cargo bay hummed with the skull piercing pitch of four turboprop motors that pulled it through the turbulent tropical skies. The large thunderheads outside the Plexiglas windows cast alternating light and shadow into the pale zinc green painted interior of the transport. The paint was much nicked and scraped in the hard usage of daily carrying people and cargoes on the air routes of Vietnam. Here, the USAF did all the duty of Eastern, American and the other carriers back in the world. The planes really took a beating doing the daily grind.

The plane’s passengers were mixed Army, Air Force, a few Navy, and some others. The stocky and stolid Korean soldiers were impassive under the glare of their sergeant, while those Vietnamese military onboard seemed animated and excited. The Viets looked small and slender compared to their Asian cousins, less disciplined, too. All were passengers of Big Blue Airline to Nha Trang, Qui Nhon, Phu Cat and points north.

The composition of the passenger list also reflected the Vietnamization that was going on down below in the war that was still dragging on into the 1970s. Things were changing: the US divisions were going stateside, leaving scattered smaller units to await being eased out and sent home. Home to a country politically hostile to, and distrustful of, its own returning servicemen. Anti-War riots and demonstrations were now a frequent occurrence. The young captain had been astonished when an unwashed young woman in her twenties had spat upon his uniform when he passed through the Atlanta airport. She had screeched Baby killer! while glaring at him over her purple tinted granny-type sunglasses.

America’s armed forces were fighting this war with severe political constraints upon them. No fire zones, sanctuaries and bombing halts hobbled the war winning capacity of the military. After Tet of 1968, the press had decided that the war could not be won and was pouring that message into American homes in color at 6 o’clock every evening. It did not seem to matter that, despite flawed information about enemy intentions, US forces had defeated the Communist offensive and scored some remarkable feats of arms. The film had looked bad, and so the views of the war reflected it. Only bad news about the conduct of the war was now treated as good news. Military operations were being judged through the viewfinder of a camera, and editors selected the grimmest and the starkest pictures for broadcast. It captured audience share; audience share commanded higher advertising dollars. The editorial choices created a theme of defeat and atrocity. American public opinion followed.

Drugs were the rebellion of youth, the symbol of sophistication and the running sore of society. Marijuana, LSD and speed replaced beer as the recreational responsibility-displacers. The most frequent terms of address by those under thirty (who were the only ones to trust, the street wisdom told) were man and babe. Tune in, turn on, and drop out were the by-words of the younger generation who wore long hair, beads, beards, and bellbottoms.

The young officer knew of these changes back in the world mostly by second hand information, the press, newsreels, and letters from home. He had been stationed overseas for most of his military career.

His jungle fatigue uniform showed harsh service. It had been one of the three new sets he was issued when he arrived in Vietnam at Cam Ranh Bay. Now, like the other uniforms, it was faded from much tropical sunshine and much laundering and sun drying, but there was the darker image on his left shoulder where there had been the large patch of the famous First Cavalry Division (Airmobile). His nylon and leather jungle boots had been polished before he started his trip, but these too had obviously seen hard service. The floppy boonie hat he pulled down over his eyes was startlingly dark green in color compared to his other uniform pieces, but it was new. This replaced his old one that had had a Cav patch stitched on the low crown of the soft brim cloth hat; but he had lost it someplace. Some of his gear had been stowed at the holding company supply room; some of his personal effects had been sent to his parents, in error the Army quickly had pointed out with apologies. He wasn’t that dead, not yet.

With baffled rubber earplugs in place against the considerable noise of the plane, the captain tried to find a comfortable place to put his head. The lack of sleep in the past few days was wearing down the little bit of strength reserves that he had built back up. There could be no small talk with one’s neighbors in this racket. Not that he had anything to say anyway.

His duffel bag and rucksack were lashed to the cargo pallet back by the plane’s loading ramp, but he had them tagged with marked strips of torn fatigues. (Some wag had humorously hand lettered a cardboard sign at Ben Hoa Air Force Base No luggage checks issued here.) The Army briefcase he held between his feet also had a tag like the others: DAVIS, John O. OF115854. His sleeves were rolled down, first for protection in case of fire, then because it was much cooler at 15,000 feet than he was used to. The hands and face had obviously once been very darkly tanned. Now they were the color of pale coffee with milk; the scars didn’t tan at all.

CHAPTER 1  

The C-7 Caribou cargo plane swept low over the mountains that rimmed Camp Radcliff. John Davis peered out of the small Plexiglas window to catch what glimpses he could of his new unit’s base camp. The clouds hung near the tops of the green peaks and cast a gray gloom over the landscape below. An intermittent rainsquall had just passed over and had left the runway puddled with standing water here and there. The ground on the fringes of the tarmac was ochre red and dotted with flat, shiny pools that promised of gooey mud.

Captain John Davis had spent the previous night enroute as a transient officer guest of the Air Force at Phu Cat Air Force Base. He envied their air-conditioned officers’ mess and the innerspring mattress on the bunk. As a nod toward admitting that this was still a war zone, the gray metal locker in his room had contained a steel helmet and a flak jacket, just in case of shelling. But, most of all, he relished the private shower with seemingly endless amounts of hot water. What a difference it made to one’s morale to feel clean for the first time in weeks.

The clean feeling went quickly by the board as CPT Davis disembarked the ’Bou and lugged his gear toward the wooden shack marked Operations. The mud started within inches of the runway. While this had once been one of the busiest airfields in Vietnam, the large helicopter formations had moved on, and the maintenance of the area had not been given the same attention since. As a consequence, so-called sidewalks were broken and gapped with muddy potholes. Red mud quickly accumulated on the soles of his jungle boots. The once-busy Operations Shack now merely housed a crank type TA 312 field telephone. John gave the handle a few brisk spins and blew into the handset to rouse the operator at the distant switchboard.

Ivey Switch; what circuit? demanded the metallic voice on the phone.

Ivey, I am at the airfield Ops and I need to talk to the Cav Squadron S-1, John explained.

Do you have that switch designator?

John was still half deaf from the noisy aircraft of the last two days’ rides and more than a little weary of the delays. No, Ivey, I just arrived and I don’t have the CEOI yet. Can’t you just put me through?

I’m sorry, sir; I only know what is listed on my lines. I don’t know who they belong to.

Damn, John swore as if that one word would clean away the tension and frustrations of the last days. He looked about him and found a classic Army goof-up. The signal designators for switchboard telephones and radios were listed in a book called the Communications and Electronics Operating Instructions (CEOI) and were supposed to be treated as carefully as confidential codes. However, GIs were mostly too lazy to do so. To save having to look up the frequently used phone switch designators and numbers, some soldier had conveniently scribbled them onto the plank table upon which the telephone sat. While this was an infraction of security, it gave Davis the information he needed.

Ivey, give me Scout 11. John pronounced it correctly as One-One to make sure that the operator got it right.

Roger, Party, standby.

Scout One-One, Specialist Hazelton, sir, was the formula response to the call. While the voice was faint and weak, it was clear enough to be heard. John wondered how the communications were to the outlying units if they were this bad on post.

Specialist, this is Captain Davis. I have just arrived at the airfield to report for duty. What’s the status of ground transport? John despaired of an E-4, still not yet a sergeant, being able to help him much.

Yes, sir. The CO is expecting you, sir. I’ll send a jeep down right away. Will you wait there?

I’ll wait, but not long. If that jeep isn’t here soon, I’m going to start walking. When I get there, I won’t be happy.

Yes, sir. He’s leaving right now.

John put the hand set back into the canvas case and shook his head ruefully. What are you coming to? You haven’t even signed in yet and already you chew out the only helpful person you have talked to. John looked around to see if anyone had overheard him talking to himself and shook his head again. Too long out here, he concluded aloud.

He went back outside and sat on his small pile of luggage. He supposed that if he sat outside it would cut down on the chances of not being noticed by the driver being sent for him. The size of his stack of gear reflected his feelings on belongings in general: Don’t pack what you can’t carry yourself, a respected Command Sergeant Major had once cautioned him, the US Army doesn’t employ porters or batmen for officers’ kit. His recent confinement in the hospital had left him weakened, and, since John was not a large man to begin with, he had tried to bring as little as possible with him. His bunkies had made out well with his left-behinds including an almost new oscillating fan that was worth its weight in gold in the tropical swelter of the III Corps area of operations northeast of Saigon.

Vehicles came and went down the road that passed the airfield, but none pulled in to pick up the new captain. John decided that he might as well plan on making his own way to the Squadron. The long flights and the noticeable lack of sleep made that a less-than-attractive way to spend the morning, especially with another rain shower moving his way.

The sound of a badly used gearbox clashing brought John’s head up. It was the promised jeep from the Squadron. Only the Cavalry Squadron in a place like this flew red and white swallowtail pennants from the jeep’s radio antennae. The driver was hot-dogging the jeep over the bumps and ruts of the road, and he slid to a halt not three feet short of John’s feet raising a spatter of mud clods.

The driver slouched out of the left seat and leaned over the hood of the jeep. He tipped up his cheap mirrored-lens sunglasses with the bent frames and said, You the new Cap’n?

John’s temper rose, but he succeeded in maintaining his control. He pitched his bags into the back seat of the jeep before he trusted himself to address the semi-reclined driver who was still draped on the hood of the jeep. With a low, barely controlled growl he said, Yes, I am. I am also addressed as ‘Sir’. What is your name, Trooper?

The driver looked as if he had been hit in the face with a clammy washcloth. He stood upright, if not erect, and assumed what he may have remembered was the position of attention. Post, he said.

Post, what? asked Davis.

Post, S-s-sir.

Ok, Post. Take me to Squadron Headquarters, and don’t get me killed in an accident on the way, said John climbing into the jeep.

Post gave him a sidelong look and started the jeep.

Camp Radcliff was located on the site of an old French plantation and still encompassed several of the old stucco buildings within its perimeter of barbed wire and watchtowers. When his old division, the First Cav, had arrived in Vietnam in the fall of 1965, the advance party had set about creating a huge landing area for the flocks of helicopters that made the unit unique. Bulldozing the ground would be the quickest way to clear it, but it would create a dusty, or alternately muddy, area. So, they had cut acres of brush by hand. I want it clean as a golf course, the general had said. Jungle gave way to muscle and steel, and the Sky Troopers came by the thousands. The Americans had eventually built wooden barracks and unit offices where they had originally pitched tents. There were more acres of the uniform clapboard and fly screen structures aligned along a gridiron of streets to make a small size town.

But, mostly, Camp Radcliff looked like it was being deserted. Here and there, trucks were being loaded with the last of things—the odd chair, a desk with only three legs and a forgotten wastepaper basket. Scraps of paper and old C-ration boxes clung to phone poles like so many wet political posters of forgotten elections. The wind slammed and re-slammed unlatched screen doors.

Post had managed to clash the gears only from first to second in his traverse of the camp. He pulled the M151 jeep up in front of a wooden building much like all the others Davis had seen. It was built along the pattern of the others at the camp, with off-white clapboards to about head height and then fly screen to the eaves. The shingle roof was trimmed in green, as were the screen doorframes and window sashes. The grass was in sore need of cutting, but the sidewalk was aligned with decorative borders; the classic Army painted rocks that did nothing to improve fighting efficiency, but gave the NCOs something to which they could direct the idle labor of malefactors and loafers.

This one, however, still sported a unit sign in front declaring this was the Headquarters of the 1st Squadron, 10th Cavalry (Buffalo Soldiers) of the 4th Infantry Division. The sign further proclaimed that LTC (Lieutenant Colonel) Jerome Carpenter was the Squadron Commander and CSM Richard H. Prentiss was the Command Sergeant Major.

The once-graveled parking lot had been rain eroded to mud, and the parking space signs were tilted and mud splattered. Post backed the jeep into the space designated Duty Vehicle and chained the steering wheel so that no one else could drive off in his vehicle. He climbed out of the jeep and disappeared without a backward glance into the headquarters building through a side door. CPT Davis unloaded his bags and stacked them inside the main door out of the rain, which had started anew.

Two enlisted clerks at typewriter desks and a Sergeant First Class, who apparently was the Personnel Sergeant, occupied the work area. As Davis folded his soft boonie hat and put it in the side cargo pocket of his fatigue pants, he noticed the clerks were busy typing on blue mimeograph stencils, the Army’s method of producing multiple copies of documents. The typewriters didn’t even have ribbons in them, so they must be used exclusively for orders. He wondered which of the clerks was the unfortunate Hazleton who had answered the phone.

The SFC looked over the top of his glasses and asked, Can I help you with something, Captain? A clerk in starched jungle fatigues watched from his desk behind a hip high rail with only slightly concealed interest. John straightened up and carried his briefcase to the rail. Davis looked about him and felt as if he were in the wrong place. All the walls were bare of the usual posters, bulletins, clipboards of rosters and so forth that were the stock-in-trade of the S-1. Even the filing cabinets were absent. But there were dirty stains on the walls and floors that showed outlines of previously placed furniture. The place must be newly occupied or soon to be vacated. But, Davis wasn’t here to comment on accommodations. He opened his briefcase and took out a copy of his transfer orders from the stack that he’d started with. Here and there they had been needed for clearing the supply room, dental clinic and more, arranging ground transportation and a room, and getting aboard the Air Force planes that had taken him to Ben Cat, then Pleiku and finally An Khe. The military consumes copies of orders, he often mused. I wonder if anybody really needs them for anything, or if they’re all eventually stored someplace at taxpayer expense?

I’m Captain Davis reporting for duty, he said aloud. Where do I sign in?

The sergeant took the proffered paper and read the first lines of the orders for the formula style personnel information and twitched his face into a semblance of welcoming smile, Oh, you are the captain assigned to take over Charlie Troop. He cleared his throat. You can sign the duty book over here, sir. He indicated an 8-inch by 14-inch binder on a desk nearby. May I have six more copies of your orders and your 201 file, sir?

John presented the envelope with his personnel file and some more of the mimeographed orders that had brought him hundreds of miles up the length of Vietnam. They had been cut so far away in Ben Hoa that it seemed quite a shock that they were still in his bag. They referenced a TWX teletype message from higher headquarters as their authority and dispatched him to An Khe to this squadron as commander of Troop C. His own command! And it was practically guaranteed in writing. When the call had come through to him, John had made sure that the duty position had been put in the orders to assure that he wouldn’t make this trek for nothing.

Funny thing—that call. John had been Adjutant of his squadron in the First Cav Division. While it was an exciting unit with more than its share of glory and pride, it was an air cavalry squadron and the command jobs went to aviators. John’s eyesight made sure that he could never be one of those, so no command was to be his. For a time, he had tried to get himself selected to command D Troop, The Rat Patrol of gun jeeps and light mortar trucks, but that was a reward for senior aviator captains who needed combat command on the ground. It had looked as if John was to serve with the best squadron in the most outstanding division, but only as a staff officer never to achieve the professional plum of combat command. Just when things had been getting lined up right again, he had been wounded. He spent all those weeks in the hospital fighting to stay in Vietnam and not be sent to Japan or the Philippines where his combat tour days would stop, and therefore delay his departure to the States. He also lost his chance at a command in the Division. While he was away, the squadron changed command; the new Commanding Officer didn’t know John or his qualities. As a result, when he returned to duty, John was detached to a classified planning section at G-3. This seemed a dead-end to John who craved the outdoors and, more than that, his own unit. He knew that, in the profession of arms, combat command was the one credential that could not be duplicated in any other way.

He had been in the Squadron’s Officers Club that fateful afternoon nursing a cold soft drink. The bar tender peeked his head around the swinging door and called him to the phone. The phone call for him was as unexpected as if someone had appeared in a fairy godmother costume.

Captain Davis speaking, sir, John had announced to the caller.

John, it’s Phil, the caller identified himself as one of John’s few close friends in the division headquarters. CPT Phil Garber was Assistant G-1 for Officer Personnel at Division Rear Headquarters. Do you still want a command? I mean, after getting wounded and such, are you up to it?

Shit, yes. Where at? exclaimed John. What unit? When do I start? A million questions came to mind, but they struggled with the need for confirmation of what he was hearing. Are you sure they want me, a ‘ground-pounder’?

John, it’s not in the division. We got a TWX cable from Field Force Headquarters; they are looking for a non-rated armor captain to command an armored cavalry troop in the Central Highlands. Ain’t that you, Old Son? Phil was obviously as excited as John was.

Wait up. Phil, how come you don’t take this? You need command, too.

You forget, Buddy Boy, I am an Air Defender and, therefore, ineligible. Anyway, I hope you want the job, because I already sent a tasking message to your squadron. Be on the airstrip tomorrow at 0700 to catch the log bird to Cav Rear. Pass by my office for your orders.

Phil, John said, I won’t forget what you have done for me.

I know, Old Son, I know.

When Davis had visited Garber’s office at the division base camp to pickup his orders, Phil had been all but bursting to tell him the gossip. When he got excited, Phil’s natural New England accent overrode the Southern drawl that many officers affected.

Have you heard about the squadron C. O. you’re going to be working for? Phil asked. When Davis said that he never sought out such chatter, Garber went on, He is the famous, at least in his own mind he’s famous, Lieutenant Colonel Jerome (No Middle Initial) Carpenter. Garber then cocked his head to the side as if he was expecting a reaction from Davis. When none was forthcoming he went on, This is the guy who resigned his commission so he could go to West Point. There was still no reaction from Davis.

Haven’t you heard about this guy at all? Garber asked incredulously. John shook his head in the negative.

Johnny my boy, this man is a newspaper-certified hero. During Korea he was in that first unit sent over from the occupation troops in Japan? Task Force Smith? The one that got all chopped up? He won a Silver Star, and, when all the officers were killed, he got a battlefield commission to second lieutenant. Then, in ’53 he up and resigned his commission so he could go to the Academy. Not bad for some kid from the wrong side of the tracks of Lincoln, Nebraska, wouldn’t you say?

Sounds like it could also be a smart move, Davis opined. He could have taken advantage of an opportunity for an outstanding education.

Old Son, you just have too good of a heart, Garber reacted. You know that he wangled a way back there on the faculty? Some of my classmates had him at the academy. He was a hell raiser who would give you a demerit or a failing grade just a soon as look at you. He was murder on recititations. He used to get so mad that everyone was sure he would have a stroke or something just because he didn’t like your attitude, answer right or wrong be damned. Those who managed a bit of suck-up did OK, those who didn’t got bruises.

Now how would I know that, Phil? Davis asked. You know I didn’t go to school with you guys.

But, John, you probably know 100 guys from my graduating class. Your Ranger buddy was one of them. Haven’t you heard about him at all?

If I had heard about him, I didn’t know it was this guy. Come on, Phil, I need to get going. Hand over my orders and I’m going to the airstrip.

OK, Old Buddy. Good luck. Stay in touch. And watch out for Carpenter.

An old fan moved the humid air as the Personnel NCO flipped through Davis’ 201 file. The starched sergeant brought John back from his fatigue-induced memory. He looked up at John saying, I’ll tell the colonel that you are here. He turned and walked to a door marked Commanding Officer which he opened a crack and murmured that the new captain had arrived. There was a scraping sound of chairs being pulled back, and the sergeant stepped aside to open the door for Davis to enter the office. Colonel Carpenter will see you now, Captain Davis.

Davis had only intended to sign in with the Adjutant, or personnel officer, and then change into a clean set of jungle fatigues and shined boots before formally meeting his new commander. Davis knew that first impressions often set the tone for future relations, but he could not avoid the interview. Doing what he could, he smoothed his clothing with the palm of his hands, pulled his fatigue shirt in an attempt to make it look less like he had worn it the last two days in a row, in and out of the rain, and twitched the front of his trousers into a faint crease. Giving that up as a lost cause, he straightened and knocked on the door-frame.

Come in, barked a voice.

Here we go John’s brain said to himself. Crossing the threshold of the commander’s door, he stepped to a spot in front of the standard metal desk and brought his right hand out into a smart regulation salute. Captain John Davis reporting for duty, Sir.

The man he saluted was standing behind his desk and didn’t move for a few long and still moments. Finally, he gave a return salute, relaxed enough to indicate his feeling of superiority and correct enough to give no excuse for slackness on the part of his subordinate.

Remaining at attention, Davis looked over the man who would be his commander and have his career, even his life, in his hands. Carpenter was about average height and, while the jungle fatigue shirt was designed to be loose fitting and therefore hid the man’s torso, his neck and jowls gave an impression of middle age weight gain. His haircut was a close flat top buzz, but it couldn’t conceal the fact that Carpenter was showing male pattern baldness on top. The crisply starched