The Force Within: Recon Scout

By Squatty-Body

About the Book
The Force Within is the story of one sergeant and his scouting team’s trials and tribulations in the wilds of Vietnam during the height of the war. He had many missions in his role, but his most important one was this... to stay alive.
About the Author
Squatty-Body is retired from the United States Army after 22 years of service. During his younger years, he was a recon scout in Vietnam. His duties were patrolling, ambushes, reconning, surveillance, and long-range patrols with movement to contact. He went to country in charge of a team of scouts. It was a long year, 173 patrols and a flight home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Feb 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889259398

Book preview

CHAPTER I

A lot of hard work had gone into first locating, then the snatching, of one Vietcong general. It had been three hard weeks of patrolling in War Zone C. Once the general had been located, he rarely left the confines of his well-fortified bunker complex. The few times he did leave, he left no opportunity for a snatch. It had been one touchy job. For most of the time, the team was confined to the small spaces provided on the rock cliff. Each team member had selected his individual crevice. The uniforms had ready-made camouflage for this mission. The team matched the terrain and foliage of the cliff. They each blended into their selected location like chameleons. Several days had passed with no opportunity to make the snatch.

There was only one primary way in or out of this bunker complex. On this trail is a small hamlet. It consisted of just seven huts, pigs, chickens, and a hand full of Vietnamese farmers. There was an outcropping rock formation that obscured the little hamlet from the primary positions of most of the team. Sgt. Garza had been positioned as the only team member able to observe the little hamlet. If a large enemy force came down that blind side, he would observe them as they came into the hamlet. His mission was really secondary in nature. There can be no surprises in this kind of mission. Sgt. Garza was to provide security for the team in the event of unrelated enemy activity.

While conducting his observation duties, he noticed one well-dressed young lady coming and going from one hut. The other villagers seemed to avoid her. She was too well-dressed to be one of the local farmers. Her presence there in that village stood out like a snowball in a coal pile. He was sure she was not from this hamlet. Sgt. Garza quietly reported his findings during the routine commo check.

Sgt. Roberts knew the team was beginning to feel the impact of this long, drawn-out motionless observation duty. He chuckled to himself as he remembered the long-forgotten nickname his older half-brother had labeled him with, ‘squatty-body’. His short stumpy legs and unusually wide shoulders of his adolescent years had filled out with muscle. All one-hundred and eighty pounds seemed to be throbbing from this lack of activity. He took a gamble and decided they would set up for close-in night observation of that hut. Bingo! It paid off, the general came calling that very night. In just a matter of seconds he had been drugged, bagged, and tagged for an immediate clandestine withdrawal back into base.

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Doc’s shot had enough tranquilizer for two men. The general had been limp as a rag for most of the trip back into base camp. Doc had continued to monitor the general’s vital signs as often as the mission would allow. If too much of the drug was used, then it could cause a coma and possibly death. If death does occur, then the hard sought-after baggage is virtually useless. This had happened to a different team on an earlier mission. When that team brought in their stiff, it got rather embarrassing. Their waste of time, effort, and sleep brought on snide remarks from many of the other operatives.

Sgt. Roberts left his team there at Ben Cat base camp. He had been ordered into this base camp to deliver the general, to drop off his team, then catch this awaiting flight down to Blackhorse base camp. This briefing will be the beginning of back-to-back missions for his already tired team. He has left his team in the good hands of his trusted comrade, Sgt. Rounds. There was no doubt their welfare would be looked after during his brief absence.

During the brief few minutes of standing around in the operations tent waiting for the general to be taken off his hands, he again heard the grumblings of the rank-and-file. Whenever the Brass would be out of earshot distance this same topic could be heard. It seemed almost too bizarre to be true, but then too many were talking as though they knew more than they were willing to say. This time their talk was about one of the Vietnamese agents that had been found dead. It had happened right there in the compound, and not by enemy fire.

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One clerk had spouted off with disbelief, Hell they’re going to kill all these guys, good or bad.

Sgt. Roberts knew this wasn’t his problem. These agents were not part of his team and thus not his concern. But where there is smoke you will find fire. The high echelon had problems maintaining Vietnamese agents they could trust. Without that trust every bit of intelligence received must be suspect to the high command. He strode out of the tent putting the troublesome conversations out of his mind.

The only obvious risks to his team would be the remote possibility of an enemy artillery round, or the vill just across the road. These local villagers will try to sell virtually anything and everything to the soldiers and this included sex. In all these vills there are ample numbers of prostitutes plying their trade. To reduce the exposure, army doctors routinely check the whores. With all the precautions taken, venereal diseases still take their toll on the conventional units in these camps. If a soldier is infected, the VD infection usually sets in several days later. If that were allowed to happen to his team, then it could make things rather touchy this time. Sgt. Roberts put the thoughts out of his mind. He knew Sgt. Rounds would not allow this to happen. He will keep them in check.

The sound of the Huey rotor blades beating out their constant rhythm was like a tranquilizer. Combined with the fatigue and heat, soon Sgt. Roberts began to lapse into a deep semi-conscious sleep. The tiredness of his body is very evident as he swayed and bounced with the craft.

It seemed he had nodded for just a short time, then suddenly he jerked violently and looked around. There was no sign of relief on his face as he began to pull himself erect. Military equipment for ground soldiers is not designed for riding in aircraft seats. The binding military webb gear had restricted his circulation in his already sore muscles. He continued stretching against the seat belts and his gear to find a comfortable position.

Once he could settle down, he very deliberately removed his Booney-Hat. The hat showed the many months of use in the jungle. It had been given to him by another team leader who had been there for two tours back-to-back. While they were drinking some beers in their tent, he had joked about that hat being his good luck. Since he had been there for two tours, he always had the attention of all the newbies. They all hung on to his every word. It was hard to tell when he was joking and when he wasn’t, but it didn’t really matter as all the new arrivals soaked up his every word. On that occasion he had their full attention.

As he made an attempt at teasing his favorite newbie he said, I’ll be going home in just a few days. You’ll need this good luck more than me.

Sgt. Roberts accepted his offer and the gentle teasing that came with it. He hadn’t heard what had happened to the old veteran until he returned from his first two-week mission. He was then told he had been killed in a road ambush. It was to be his last convoy in country as he headed for Long Bihn and his flight home.

As he sat there totally oblivious to his surroundings, Sgt. Roberts began to turn his booney-hat several times as though searching for the proper crease, then he began to fold it gently. While concentrating on the folding of his Booney-Hat his facial expression seemed to change ever so slightly. Suddenly, his head snapped up from the hat and what he had been doing. He snapped a look around as though someone might have caught him doing something he shouldn’t be doing, then unceremoniously crammed the hat into his side fatigue pouch.

His fold-up crossbow had been between his left leg and the metal aircraft seat frame. It had cut off the blood circulation making his left leg partially numb. After removing the crossbow for a quick inspection, it was again secured with its Velcro straps.

This crossbow had been a gift from his father. His father had secretly begun to build it when he heard about his son’s overseas orders for shipment. He had given it to him during Sgt. Roberts’ last leave at home. There had been some good times as they practiced with shooting it. The day before he was to leave, and during their last practice session together, his father handed him a handful of new arrows. With a false sternness, he abruptly said, Make them count, and come home alive. He then quickly turned and strode back to the house.

Because it was not an approved military weapon, it had caused considerable ridicule from a young officer on at least one occasion. The crossbow collapsed into an eighteen-inch pack complete with three ready to use arrows. The silent swift usefulness of a collapsible, 460 lbs. of pull, crossbow had proven its merit time and again during the past several months.

The young door gunner pretended not to be aware of Sgt. Roberts’ activity inside the helicopter. He continued his pretense of only observing out over his gun, in a rather disinterested matter-of-fact manner. It took Sgt. Roberts several moments to straighten out the cord of the extra intercom helmet laying on the seat beside him.

Once the helmet was fitted on his head, and the intercom switch selected to communicate only with the gunner, he keyed the intercom and said, Hey gunner, got a smoke?

The young man who had been pretending to tentatively be doing only his duty, turned and offered a C-ration pack of Salems without answering. The expression on the young gunner’s face seemed sad and distant. He quickly turned back to his task of observing. Like electric in the air, the mood of the young gunner was very evident without hearing a single tone of his voice.

There were only two cigarettes left in the four-cigarette pack. The pack looked like it had been slept on for at least one uncomfortable night. Sgt. Roberts selected one smoke, gently straightened it out, then wedged it above his right ear. With the cigarette securely stored away, he then bumped the gunner on the arm, and handed back the pack.

The young gunner had slightly turned to retrieve the pack, then he quickly returned back to his duties without making a response. Sgt. Roberts took notice and observed the telltale, unspoken emotions of the gunner. Something had been weighing heavy on his mind. It was obvious the young man had been struggling for some time with his own personal demons.

His hands were on his M-60 door gun in a casual manner acquired only from considerable experience. His familiarity with his weapon told another story as well. It was obvious he had too many hours just sitting behind his gun. Those hours allowed much too much time for thinking. Many hours of just sitting with nothing but your personal thoughts, your worries, your self-doubts, and your mind begins to waver off center. You can become afflicted with a heightened degree of worry about dying. If you do not control those thoughts, then dying becomes your primary focus. Your thoughts on how to keep living become secondary and dangerously out of focus. Even a seasoned veteran can have a tough time controlling his focus on the mission if he’s been out in the jungle a long time. So many times, the young and inexperienced fail this final hurdle to survival. The young gunner was most likely struggling with this familiar phenomenon of death premonition.

Sgt. Roberts again keyed the mike, It sure looks peaceful from up here, don’t it?

The young man half turned, again to look at this persistent intruder into his private thoughts. His response matched with the faraway look on his face, Yeah, it sure does... From up here you can’t tell what goes on down there. There was a pause, then, You think this war will ever be over, Sarge?

Sgt. Roberts measured the young man with a steady look. He knew he could not overly concern himself with this young man’s problems. His plate was full just taking care of his direct responsibilities; his team must always be his primary focus. He made a mental note to mention his observations at the appropriate time.

Just a few short months ago, most certainly, this young man’s biggest concern was getting to school on time. Or maybe it was if his girl was kissing some other boy at break time. It damn sure wasn’t about living and dying in some foreign country thousands of miles from anyone who really cared.

Sgt. Roberts tried to make light of the situation, If the shootin’ stops, then another kind of war begins. The damned money grubbers will be coming in droves. This country has a lot of natural resources, ya know?

The young gunner did not verbally respond, nor did his expression change. He just turned back to his gun and his duties of observing. Both men sat quietly without talking. They just sat there watching the countryside and bouncing with the rhythm of the Huey.

An unfamiliar voice came over the intercom, Sarge, guess you’re awake back there, I’ll be your transportation on this next mission. Didn’t have a chance to talk back at base camp, we’re running a little late, ya know. I just recently got in country, so we’ve never met before.

Sgt. Roberts tried to remember what the pilots had looked like when he had approached the running craft back at Base camp. Both pilots were wearing their helmets and had their gear on, in their seats, and with the aircraft running at a hot idle. He couldn’t remember anything in particular about them. As far as he was concerned, they were just two more warriors in harm’s way.

Sgt. Roberts paused, then in a reluctant manner, he keyed the mike, Sir, I don’t know anything at this time either, but I have no doubt we’ll find out in due course. How far out from their base camp are we anyway?

The pilot’s voice had the ring of apprehension as he answered, We’re about ten minutes out; I’ll be going to the briefing with you after we shut down.

The Blackhorse base camp had just come into view from the side door of the Huey. The third squadron area of the base camp seemed to be a bustle of activity. There were many soldiers in various uniforms all scurrying about. From this altitude, they reminded Sgt. Roberts of watching a hill of ants. If you looked at the mass, you could not tell what was going on, but if you focus on just one then its purpose becomes glaringly clear.

The craft continued to descend. As it did, it came in over the main road running north and south along the parameter fence. Just beyond the road and fence there were large bunkers, then there were many ACAVs parked in rows. These standard issue armored personnel carriers have been highly modified. The additional armor and machine guns make them a formidable fighting vehicle. They were aptly named armored cavalry assault vehicle, or for short ACAV.

The problem with all these armored conventional vehicles is that Charlie is fighting a jungle guerrilla war. In almost all cases, the battles involving these conventional vehicles are of Charlie’s choice and choosing. It seems the American generals are quite frustrated by this obvious lack of controlling the battlefield. Generals want to deploy their battalions, brigades, and divisions with the expected genius decisions of past wars. They obviously want their troops to fight well, and surely some will die, in these major battles that they have engineered and won. That is what has made generals famous in past wars. To fight a nasty clandestine guerrilla war without the expected amenities due great generals is just out of the question, it’s totally unthinkable! To live out in the jungle, with no air-conditioned offices, no personal quarters, no orderlies, and eat the ordinary foods served to the troops, this can never be. Somehow Charlie will be forced to fight a conventional war on their terms. Already one great American president has lost his life just so this war could be escalated as a conventional war. The mind trap had been sprung and there is no backing out now.

The aircraft was still five hundred feet or more above treetop level. People still seemed so small from this altitude, but now you can tell they’re people. The bustle of activity around the vehicles indicated that these preparations were already well under way for the upcoming mission. It appeared that the initial orders for a move out had been given several hours ago. This base camp seemed to resemble many other base camps. The total lack of growing vegetation gave the appearance of a lunar surface. The tents, vehicles, and people all had a red ground-in-dirt appearance. The red clay dirt would put its permanent mark into everything in that base camp. No matter how much these soldiers washed their uniforms, the red tint would remain.

Certainly, security was the only primary consideration when the army engineers laid out all these base camps. First, all living life must be removed! They would come in with dozers and scrape it down to the bare dirt. Soon they would have a road, wire all the way around, bare dirt, with many tents in neat rows, then they would immediately name their new base camp achievement.

The smell of burn barrels was already evident as the craft continued to descend. Because of this upper echelon mentality to build these camps as temporary sites they intentionally do not build sewer systems. Instead, to dispose of human waste, they mix it with diesel fuel, and then burn it daily. There is something ominous about that smell: the smell of human waste and diesel burning causes your lungs to involuntarily stop breathing.

Sgt. Roberts has always marveled at what