Chapter Five
Airborne!
"Our people" came to pick us up just as we returned from Squadron Headquarters. Tech Sergeant Ferguson skidded up to Captain Gornell's Quonset in an army 3/4-ton truck similar to the vehicle that bore us from Saigon. He dismounted in a cloud of settling dust, casually saluted the glowering Gornell and smiling, introduced himself to us. His jungle fatigues were frayed and faded, pants bloused, army style, into jungle boots that had been scuffed away to reddish-brown suede. A floppy jungle hat, brim folded up in front like Gabby Hayes, sat forward on his head. A "screaming eagle" patch was tacked to his left shoulder above the USAF rank insignia on his arm. He was, he said in an Oklahoma drawl, our Chief Observer. He smiled a cowboy smile and, looking directly at the captain, further announced that he was "short." Gornell returned his salute and withdrew, briskly and without further comment.
Det 32 provided each of us with B4 bags, cavernous, gray, zippered canvas sacks with loops on top for hand carrying. Then we drew weapons, "old" M16's with forked flash suppressors. Although .38 pistols were also authorized, on Ferguson's advice they were declined. The pistols, he said, were easily lost or, more likely, stolen. If you signed for one and it came up missing you'd be discussing the particulars before a board of inquiry and filling out more paperwork than H&R Block in April. The last order of business at Long Binh was to separate us from our civilian clothes and "dress" military gear - Class 'A' blues, short-sleeved '1505' khakis, low-quarter shoes and the like. These items were stuffed into our blue, USAF issue duffel bags to be left with Det 32 for safekeeping. Now encumbered with only the sartorial basics and rifles with neither bayonets nor magazines, the four of us (Szlaby, Thomkins, Newman and I) climbed aboard Ferguson's truck to show those friendly folks at Long Binh our heels.
Headquarters, 101st Airborne Division, proved to be a short drive from Long Binh. Situated just off the end of the Bien Hoa Airbase runway, the location was called simply Bien Hoa Army. A large sign at the gate featured the Screaming Eagle logo with words beneath advising, "This is Airborne Country." The area had been part of the Michelin rubber plantation but expansion of the airbase and the headquartering of the 101st saw the forest leveled. What tree stumps remained were being steadily smoldered into charcoal by the Vietnamese for GI barbecue pits. Smoke from a hundred small fires along the way blended with the heat-haze and suspended road dust giving the place a science fiction L.A.-after-the-bomb atmosphere. The camp itself was not as rectangularly squared away as Long Binh. It sprawled over low-rolling hills to disappear into the haze in all directions. Dusty, olive drab (OD) was the dominant color scheme, relieved only occasionally by a stunted palm and some small grassy areas.
Our new home was one of several hootches that formed the boundaries of an open quadrangle that housed only the ubiquitous latrine-cum-shower building. For reasons unclear, however, this particular facility boasted no latrine, just showers and sinks. Since my first and most pressing order of business involved a latrine, I had to seek one out. The nearest one to our hootch complex was at least a hundred yards away.
The army's latrines were few and far between. The tall, stand-alone plywood sheds contained steps inside to mount a three-holer throne. Stateside-type white toilet seats screwed to a rough wood bench were the only concession to comfort. Head-high screening allowed for ventilation but the aroma within, trapped under a sun-warmed corrugated roof, allowed for no mistaking this building’s purpose. Graffiti, some flies and a copy of yesterday's Stars and Stripes provided diversion from the task at hand. There was even a half roll of toilet paper to supplement the newspaper or vice versa. The waste fell into sawed off steel drums removable from a hatch in the rear. Periodically it was mixed with fuel (diesel, mogas, whatever) and burned. The atmosphere of the whole camp was chronically perfumed with the aroma of smoldering rubber tree and burning shit.
Simple urination took less planning and travel. Six-inch diameter tubes were randomly stuck out of the ground throughout the camp, some screened waist-high with green canvas in a 'U' pattern, some not. These were artillery shell casings pressed into further service as urine "aiming points" and generally known as "piss tubes."
Our cheerless, olive drab quarters came right off the same "Hootch, Tropical..." drawing board as those of Tan Son Nhut and Long Binh. Rather than at the end, however, the entrance to this hootch was in the northeast corner. Immediately inside there was an open area, partitioned off from the rest, containing only a grimy refrigerator quietly humming away to itself. The remainder of the interior was divided into eight semiprivate personal areas with bunks along the exterior walls. OD metal wall lockers were placed to form partitions between the bunks. The floor was cement. A Vietnamese woman in a conical hat was squatting on the floor looking busy with a broom of sorts only three feet long. She beamed a snaggle-toothed smile and greeted each of us as we dragged our stuff in. She said what sounded like "Herro sawyan," to me. To her, I guess, the military had only two ranks: "sawyan" (sergeant) and "daiwee" (Vietnamese for captain). GIs called all oriental women without sex appeal "Mamasan." So be it. The arrangement was that Mamasan would, for $10 per month from each of us, take care of our laundry, shoe shining and general housekeeping. She had a daughter, about ten, who helped her with her chores. Fergy just loved that kid. He had clothes for her sent from home and saw to it she never wanted for candy. Oriental kids were all known as "Babysan." Ditto this one.
While we were moving in, other members of the unit presented themselves. There were three forecasters assigned, two officers and one enlisted. Captain Clarke, a tall, soft-spoken guy from North Carolina was to be our immediate commander. His complexion didn't respond well to the tropics and as a result he resembled a large, friendly carp. He and the other officer-forecaster, 2d Lieutenant Bussell, were quartered elsewhere with "company grade" army officers. Clarke had stopped by to inquire how "we-all" were doin' and see if we had any problems requiring his immediate attention. We didn't seem to have any so he loped off to deliver his afternoon briefing for the commanding general and his staff.
Clarke had the unenviable position of having to answer to four "superiors." On the Air Force side, he answered directly to Captain Gornell as commander of Detachment 32. On the Army side, Lieutenant Colonel (“Chargin’ Charlie”) Beckwith, the 101st G2, exercised "staff supervision" over him. Staff supervision was a euphemism for on-scene boss. Then there was the Signal Battalion commander from whom he had to beg logistic and technical support. Lastly, there was one Major General Olinto M. Barsanti, the division commander. He exercised "operational control" over him. If you have OPCON you get to tell someone where to go and what to do but not how to do it. General Barsanti was considered to be a "difficult" man. Clarke had to make the G2 look good for Barsanti, ideally by producing the kind of weather the general wanted using whatever equipment the signal battalion saw fit to allow him, however they felt like maintaining it. If Clarke pissed off the G2, the general or the signal battalion people, they'd tell his "real" boss(es) in the Air Force and have him "fired." Being relieved of command in combat was not the way to promotion.
The enlisted forecaster, Jerry Koestler, a tech sergeant knocking on retirement's door, resembled a wily rabbit in appearance and mannerisms. A clever, witty guy, he bullshitted with us while we squared our gear away, clueing us in on the who's who and what's what that he thought we needed to know. You could tell he was trying to get a feel for what we were all about. I liked the guy right off. He seemed to know how to get the job done, which regulations to obey, which to ignore and how to get away with it. In addition to his forecaster role, Jerry doubled as a bartender at the senior NCO’s watering hole, known as the “Top Three” Club. His contacts through the Top Three had led to the acquisition of, among other things, the fridge in the entryway.
Paul Roodben, an 18-year staff sergeant of receding hairline and expanding girth, had been reclining on his rack when we stumbled in. A pleasant enough fellow, he was a veteran of the Korean War and less than enthusiastic about his assignment in this conflict. The quiet Dutchman wanted nothing more than to survive Vietnam and collect retirement. He never thought he'd be stuck in the Army. He wanted to either be transferred back to an Air Force unit or sent so far out into the boonies that nobody would remember him until it came time to DEROS.
Bien Hoa Army boasted a Class VI store from which Koestler returned, by way of the Top Three Club, with a complimentary case of cold beer and a bottle of bourbon. Now that the unit was getting up to strength, he explained, we'd be able to stock the fridge for resale - on the honor system for us and at a profit to the grunts who had only very limited and arbitrary access to cold drinks. Koestler also had plans to construct a new, underground bunker. The existing bunker was aboveground, a six-by-ten, four-foot high box of disintegrating cotton sandbags between hootches. Sandbag construction, it was explained, had been refined in the short time since the bunker had been built; new bags were made of a woven plastic which wouldn't rot; fill them with a sand-cement mix and, after a series of rains and dry spells, you had a "concrete" structure. He had a hole dug already and he wanted to get it roofed over with PSP and new, improved sandbags. A "concrete" roofed hole-in-the-ground would be, he said, rocket-proof.
Fergy had volunteered the unit vehicle for a mamasan taxi service back to the city of Bien Hoa. As we unpacked, drank and got acquainted, Vietnamese women began to gather in the front of the hootch for the ride home. They hunkered down in a circle in front of the fridge and chirped and chattered among themselves with increasing volume and considerable animation. They didn't carry purses like western women; instead, they each had a cloth-wrapped bundle or straw bag on the bare floor in front of them. I could see through the doorway that all the hootch maids were not sexless “mamasans.” There was one in particular who would have passed for "cute" in any culture. She seemed to know it and kept casting shy glances in our general direction until Fergy herded them all out to scramble into the back of the truck. We finished off our beers and went for chow.
The company chow hall was little more than a hootch with a kitchen and picnic tables. Koestler was clearly on the best of terms with the mess sergeant, a Puerto Rican guy in a T-shirt named Ramos. Sergeant Ramos came over to our table as we polished off some ice cream and asked us, in the manner of a maitre d', if the food was OK. It was and we told him so, surprised that he gave a damn and more so that he would invite criticism from his captive customers. Koestler introduced us around, then he and Ramos got off in a corner for subdued, private conversation. I suspected that deals were in the making. A Canadian Army corporal taught me that being buddies with the mess sergeant worked better for you in the field than a two-grade promotion. I’m also betting that Koestler was pretty tight with a supply sergeant or two.
After supper Fergy had us gather in the weather station for a mini-commander's call. The "weather station" turned out to be a small office on the hootch model overlooking a long, gentle slope that fell away to the airbase runway about a mile away. It was sparsely furnished and, without the briefing counter and extensive map display common to every weather station I'd seen thus far, it looked more like a contractor's work-site office. A tall, skinny second lieutenant was in conversation with Captain Clarke as we trooped in. This was Lieutenant Bussell, the other officer forecaster. Bussell was blessed with freckles, reddish hair and the angular features of Ichabod Crane. He unfolded his long arm like a carpenter's ruler to shake each and every new hand and with each introduction he primly and properly addressed each by name and rank. When we all got settled, he took a stand on the right hand of his commander. Clarke told him to sit down with the rest of us then launched into his spiel.
The unit, known as Operating Location (OL) 4 of Det 32, was more or less in its infancy. The 101st had come to Vietnam piecemeal and USAF weathermen had been similarly fed into it. The First Brigade had been in Vietnam for a couple of years without any attached weathermen. Two observers were recently put with them as transfers from the 1st Infantry Division. They were operating near Song Be, some 70 miles northwest, near the Cambodian border. The rest of the division had come over just two months ago. We had an observing team with the Third Brigade at Phuoc Vinh, forty miles or so to our north and, until recently, with the Second at LZ SALLY, between Hue and the DMZ some 300 miles north. Rumor had it that plans were afoot to deploy the entire division to Hue. They had recently been hurrying up in order to wait for those plans to come to fruition. In the interim, it fell upon Captain Clarke to convince General Barsanti that the 101st needed the USAF weather support thrust upon it and that, in turn, his division was obliged to support us.
How the weather teams actually were supported seemed to depend on personalities. The guys with 1st Brigade had army experience with “Big Red One” and had been "properly" introduced. Rapport had been quickly established; they were well received and adequately, if not properly, supported. Staff Sergeant Lipnick, who had served a hitch in the Army before enlisting in the Air Force, had insinuated his team into the good graces of 3d Brigade. Up north, however, Ringsdorf (of the black beret and Bronze Star) and Thomkins had not been so fortunate. To hear them tell it, 2d Brigade barely tolerated them; they ignored their weather information and left them to fend for themselves. To date, with reference to our place in the logistical scheme of things, General Barsanti remained "difficult."
Fergy took over the meeting at that point. After reminding us all that he was "short," (as in 60 days and a wake up to go), he told us what our tasks would be, initially and over the long haul. Some of us were to be farmed out to the brigades and some would remain with the headquarters. The idea was that brigade weather teams would take observations, make their data available to staff and aviation elements on site, and relay it to the weather team at headquarters. The army was supposed to provide the means to communicate. Teletypes, FM radios and dedicated telephone lines were supposed to be made available to us. So far, only one 60 word-per-minute, receive-only teletype and a common user phone were provided. Our units out in the boonies, whose sole function was to relay perishable weather information, were wasting their time and effort, not to mention endangering their lives, without means to communicate. In short, once in the field with a brigade or beyond, survival and comfort depended upon the ability to scrounge and hustle. Insurmountable problems and emergencies were to be referred, somehow, to the chief observer or Captain Clarke. Training would begin in the morning in a new observation code called METAR. A six-hours-on, twelve-off duty schedule was posted. New guys would draw more clothing and equipment, then head over to the airbase in the morning for a BX and pay run. Cold beer would be available at the club for another hour. "Any questions?" Before Lieutenant Bussell could prolong the meeting, as he was clearly about to, we scrambled out into the night, Koestler in the lead, headed for “the club.”
The 101st allowed their junior enlisted men (those in the lower six ranks) two hours of beer drinking in the evening. Only open cans were available to prevent stockpiling. Brand selection was limited. The building set aside for the sale and consumption of suds was yet another hootch, set off the north side of the quadrangle. This "club" catered to Headquarters and Headquarters Company - about three hundred REMF soldiers and our half-dozen weathermen. The interior was gloomy, airless and filled with staggering and belligerent paratroopers. To accommodate the crush, beer was also dispensed from a hatch in the front of the building for alfresco consumption. We drew some strange stares and a few derogatory comments as we lined up for the purchase. I felt as welcome as a rabbi at a Klan meeting.