On Jan. 30, 1968, all U.S. combat units in Vietnam went to alert status when the Viet Cong violated the Tet Cease-fire by attacking Da Nang and eleven other cities in the center of the country. The 9th Infantry Division’s 2nd Battalion, 47th Infantry (Mechanized) deployed to overwatch positions around the sprawling American logistics base at Long Binh, which was also the headquarters of U.S. II Field Forces. Early the following morning, Jan. 31, the rest of the coordinated VC/NVA attacks erupted countrywide. The 2-47’s B Company, along with the Battalion Scout Platoon, led by 1st Lt. Brice Barnes, moved into the Long Binh base perimeter when it came under direct attack. Just after they arrived, VC sappers using satchel charges blew part of the American ammo dump.  

Widows’ Village, located directly across Highway 15 from II Field Forces headquarters, was a motley collection of shacks occupied by the widows and families of ARVN soldiers. When a company-sized VC unit attacked through the hamlet on their way to assault the II Field Forces compound, a platoon of four M-113 armored personnel carriers (APC) from B Company was sent across the road to block the attack. But the American platoon immediately ran into fierce resistance. The platoon lost two of its APCs and took heavy casualties, including the platoon leader. Ordered forward by the 2-47th’s battalion commander, Barnes left two of his APCs to provide security for the battalion command post and took his other eight M-113s across the road and into the village. Assuming command of all the American troops in Widows’ Village, he organized and led the counterattack.  

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According to his Distinguished Service Cross citation: “Repeatedly disregarding his safety, [Barnes] braved withering fire to direct civilians in the battle area to safety. Bullets struck all around him, but he refused to take cover and led a house-to-house sweep, personally destroying a recoilless rifle and an automatic weapon position.” In the course of the battle the scouts rescued more than 50 civilians and led them to safety. At one point Barnes himself ran directly into enemy fire to rescue an old woman and two small children. As the heavy fighting progressed and the scouts were starting to run low on ammo, Barnes was able to attract the attention of two AH-1 Cobra gunships orbiting low overhead. Since he did not have the radio frequencies or call signs for the gunships, he had to stand exposed on top of one of his APCs and use hand-and-arm signals to direct the gunship fire against the dug-in VC positions.  

After Widows’ Village was secured and the Scout Platoon was resupplied with ammo, the platoon was ordered to proceed two miles west to Bien Hoa City, where the 2-47th’s C Company had been heavily engaged all day. But they never got there. The Scout Platoon ran into a heavy ambush while passing through the village of Ho Nai on Highway 1. The murderous crossfire by heavy machine guns and RPGs broke Barnes’ column of eight APCs into three groups. During the fighting Barnes was hit by fragmentation from an RPG round that struck close by. Meanwhile, he was able to call in support from two UH-1B gunships to finally clear the ambush.  

For the combined fights at Widows’ Village and Ho Nai, Brice Barnes was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. Later during his first tour in Vietnam Barnes commanded Headquarters Company of the 2-47th. During his second tour in Vietnam he commanded Company A, 5th Battalion, 12th Infantry, 199th Infantry Brigade. After he left active duty, Barnes continued to serve in the Texas Army National Guard, where in later years he commanded a mechanized infantry battalion. He finished his military career as a colonel in the U.S. Army Reserve. From 2010 to 2012 he served as the Honorary Colonel of the 47th Infantry Regiment.  

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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On March 30, 1972, the aging revolutionaries in Hanoi’s Politburo abandoned the strategy of protracted struggle and launched an all-out conventional invasion of the Republic of Vietnam (RVN). By mid-April, the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) had committed its entire combat capability—14 divisions, 26 separate infantry regiments, and 1,200 tanks, plus all its artillery regiments and engineer battalions.

The NVA also introduced weapons heretofore not seen in Vietnam: large formations of T-54 tanks; AT-3 Sagger anti-tank missiles; and SA-7 shoulder-fired, heat-seeking anti-aircraft missiles. Fighting raged in Quang Tri province near the DMZ, in An Loc 60 miles from Saigon, and in the Central Highlands, threatening Kontum City. The U.S. press named it the Easter Offensive since it began on Holy Thursday, the first day of Easter celebrations for South Vietnam’s Catholic population.   

My Mentor in Vietnam

As in the early 1960s, the only Americans fighting on the ground were a handful of U.S. advisers with the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN). One of them was Lt. Col. Charles L. “Chuck” Butler, an adviser with the 31st ARVN Regiment, 21st ARVN Division, who I met the first week of May ’72.  

I was a major, just assigned as the adviser with the 6th Airborne Battalion, Vietnamese Airborne Division. The battalion was co-located with the 31st Regiment and was reconstituting after being decimated near An Loc, Binh Long’s provincial capital, 15 miles north. Although I had served a previous tour in Vietnam with the 101st Airborne Division, I had no advisory training. When I received my orders in January 1972 to return to Vietnam in late April, I requested attendance at an abbreviated Vietnamese language course and adviser training school at Fort Bragg. My assignment officer in Washington, D.C., denied both requests, stating I would be assigned to the MACV staff in Saigon. Little did he know!  

Chuck Butler was a seasoned combat veteran. He had been an adviser in Vietnam from 1963-64 and an infantry platoon leader during the Korean War. He was a true font of knowledge and had a great perspective on the war. His counsel proved to be invaluable to me as I was getting my feet on the ground. Because Chuck was a modest man, I didn’t learn of his heroism in Korea until years later.  

Chuck in Korea

Charles Lewis Butler was a member of the U.S. Military Academy’s class of 1950—670 men who graduated on June 6 that year. He and 197 of his classmates were commissioned in the infantry. Nineteen days later, North Korea invaded South Korea, drawing the United States into a war for which it was ill-prepared. The American defense establishment was gutted in the aftermath of World War II. Rapid demobilization, draconian budget cuts, and an inept management produced a hollow force. To stop the North Korean onslaught and fill the ranks, many members of the USMA class of 1950 were immediately sent to Korea, including Chuck Butler.  

Chuck said goodbye to his new bride, Joan, and on Aug. 20, 1950, was aboard a troop transport sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge. He was assigned to F Company, 7th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division. The division was needed in Korea but was woefully understrength. Due to the severe shortage of infantry lieutenants, recent West Point graduates were sent into battle without any training other than what they received at the Military Academy.  

Chinese communist forces swarmed into North Korea in November 1950. Gen. Douglas MacArthur had discounted the possibility of Chinese intervention, but their appearance in large numbers prompted him to order the withdrawal of United Nations troops north of the 38th parallel. The 3rd Infantry Division was tasked to cover the evacuation of 1st Marine Division and the 7th Infantry Division as they left the Chosin Reservoir and moved to the port of Hungnam on North Korea’s east coast.  

On Dec. 15, Chuck’s platoon was given five tanks and the mission to assist a beleaguered U.S. unit. Then-Lt. Butler described what happened as he led his small force. “We suddenly came around an S-curve in the road and on both sides of us the hills crawled with Chinese. I was hit in the arm…then I was hit in the groin.”  

Unable to walk, he ordered his wounded men placed on the tanks, while he was lifted onto the lead tank. Although gravely injured, Chuck manned a turret-mounted machine gun and provided covering fire, allowing his task force to disengage from hundreds of Chinese and return to friendly lines. Butler was evacuated to Japan and hospitalized for three months. Upon returning to duty in Korea, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross—the Army’s second highest decoration for valor.  

To Vietnam

Twelve years later, in the fall of 1963, Maj. Chuck Butler was in Vietnam, assigned as an advisor with the 9th ARVN Division, operating in the Mekong Delta. The delta region was the agricultural heartland of the RVN; its provinces contained two-thirds of the nation’s population and produced the bulk of its rice crop.  

1963 was a period of great turmoil. President Ngo Dinh Diem failed to stem the growing communist insurgency or increase popular support for his government. Restrictions on religious freedoms ignited a crisis, resulting in Buddhist riots and self-immolations by monks. Diem’s refusal to initiate any liberal reforms in the face of mounting opposition caused President John F. Kennedy to lose all faith in him. It was the last straw for the Kennedy Administration and word was quietly relayed to Saigon that JFK was amenable to a regime change.  

The ARVN generals spent more time plotting coups and jockeying for positions than opposing the communists. The ARVN stayed in their cantonment areas while VC cadres took advantage of their apparent paralysis. Frustration mounted among advisers like Maj. Chuck Butler, who wanted to challenge the enemy. However, no amount of prodding could energize the ARVN. Meanwhile Diem’s government continued to accept U.S. economic and military aid at the rate of $1.5 million dollars per day ($14 million per day in today’s dollars).  

On Nov. 1, 1963, ARVN troops commanded by Gen. Duong Van Minh attacked the presidential residence in Saigon. Diem and his brother, Nhu, escaped and hid in the Chinese quarter of the city. The brothers surrendered the following day, assuming they would be sent into a comfortable exile. Gen. Minh had other ideas and ordered their execution.  

Diem’s death was followed three weeks later by President Kennedy’s assassination on Nov. 22. It created uncertainty in Vietnam over what the new U.S. policy might be. Immediately, Kennedy’s successor, Lyndon B. Johnson, issued a directive emphatically stating that he would stay the course in Southeast Asia. LBJ saw the political fallout in 1949 when Mao gained power in China and was determined not to be the president who “lost Vietnam.” ARVN military leaders breathed a sigh of relief.  

Aftermath of Assassinations

In the coup’s aftermath, Minh and his Military Revolutionary Council enjoyed widespread acclaim. The euphoria dissipated when the new rulers showed little aptitude for governing, squabbling over every issue. No progress was made against recent VC inroads or instituting needed reforms. Political instability was perpetuated when a bloodless coup on Jan. 30, 1964, ousted the Military Revolutionary Council.  

Chuck Butler noticed the turbulence created by the revolving door in Saigon. Political loyalties and family ties trumped military professionalism, so generals who were closely allied with the new leadership received choice assignments. They, in turn, brought their loyal subordinates with them to fill jobs throughout the ranks. Butler observed two rounds of leader changes, both of which degraded military effectiveness. When his tour concluded in September 1964, the downward spiral continued, resulting in the commitment of U.S. combat troops in the spring and summer of 1965.  

Opting for a second Vietnam tour rather than retirement, Lt. Col. Butler returned in September 1971. Again he was assigned as an adviser in the Mekong Delta, but this time with the 21st ARVN Division. The unit was responsible for the southernmost portion of the Delta, which contained the famous VC sanctuary, the U Minh Forest. The ARVN had been relatively successful subduing the insurgency throughout the region and pacifying the countryside. Butler was pleased to see the improvement.  

Helping Junior Officers in Vietnam

The senior adviser to the 21st ARVN Division was Col. J. Ross Franklin, a legendary warrior-scholar with multiple Vietnam tours and a doctorate in international relations from American University. He also spoke fluent French. Franklin and Butler were West Point classmates and held each other in high esteem. Both had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross during the Korean War and served together at Fort Benning’s Infantry School after the conflict. Franklin assigned Chuck as his deputy with a primary focus advising the division’s two principal staff officers, the G2 (Intelligence) and the G3 (Operations).  

Within the 21st ARVN Division combat assistance team, Butler gained a reputation for mentoring junior officers. Capt. Ed DeVos, on his first assignment in Vietnam as an assistant adviser with the 33rd ARVN Regiment, was a beneficiary of Butler’s insights. Arriving in December 1971, the captain sought out Chuck Butler and asked him many questions about the role of a junior officer “advising” men who had been fighting their entire adult lives. A recipient of two Silver Stars during the Easter Offensive, DeVos cited his admiration for Butler in his 2020 book, The Last 100 Yards.  

The 21st ARVN Division’s mission abruptly changed on April 7, 1972. President Nguyen Van Thieu convened a meeting of key officials to assess the military situation. The border town of Loc Ninh had just fallen to the communist juggernaut and Binh Long’s provincial seat, An Loc, was the NVA’s next objective. If An Loc fell, there were no forces to stop an enemy advance on Saigon, 60 miles away. Thieu made the unprecedented decision to move the 21st ARVN Division from the Delta to reinforce the defenders of Binh Long Province.  

Even in the face of the largest North Vietnamese offensive of the war, U.S. withdrawals mandated by the Vietnamization program continued. Personnel shortages in division and regimental assistance teams were the norm. Regimental teams were authorized a lieutenant colonel, three captains, and two sergeants but it was not unusual for only one or two Americans to be with an ARVN regiment; the U.S. Army replacement system simply could not keep pace with battle casualties, medical evacuations for sickness, and end-of-tour rotations.  

Rather than allow a key vacancy to remain unfilled, Butler volunteered to be the senior adviser with the 31st ARVN Regiment. Chuck Butler always went to “the sound of the guns.” Still, he remained Franklin’s “go-to” guy for most problems and was in charge of the division assistance team in the senior adviser’s absence.  

By April 12, the division was assembled in Lai Khe, the former base of the U.S. 1st Infantry Division, and told to open QL (National Route) 13 to An Loc. The 7th NVA Division had cut the road, further isolating An Loc, now surrounded by two NVA divisions, the 5th and 9th. The 21st ARVN had never operated in the field as a combat division. In its former area, commanders only supervised regimental and battalion operations. Battle-tested SOPs were nonexistent and staff work was shoddy, often lacking clarity. Attacks often failed due to a lack of proper coordination. Commanders at all levels became overly reliant on U.S. airpower, especially B-52 strikes, and were hesitant to move without them.  

Facing Hardcore NVA Forces

Nor had the 21st ARVN previously encountered large formations of hardcore NVA forces that stood their ground and employed heavy artillery in quantities not previously seen. Indirect fire from 130mm and 152mm guns became the major killer of friendly troops. Consequently, ARVN soldiers developed a bunker mentality and literally “went to ground.” Such behavior was particularly prevalent among the leaders.

In a letter to his family, Butler said his ARVN counterpart, Lt. Col. Xuan, only left the regimental command bunker to answer the call of nature. By contrast, Butler regularly checked the troops, usually under fire. Butler’s bravery resulted in the award of the Silver Star, but his example had little effect. No amount of cajoling altered Xuan’s behavior. The commander’s abrogation of leadership responsibilities lowered morale and contributed to inaction.    

While the 21st Division struggled along highway QL 13, I was experiencing a problem establishing a modicum of rapport with the 6th Airborne Battalion commander, Lt. Col. Dinh. He viewed me as useful when we were in a fight because I was the link to U.S. airpower, yet at other times, I was just excess baggage. He was vocal about not needing any tactical input from Americans. Butler attributed this attitude to the impact of Vietnamization. Many Vietnamese, including Dinh, believed they would ultimately be left high and dry by the United States. They were more perceptive than most Americans then serving in Vietnam.  

The Division Fights On

Butler said the specter of our imminent departure and the reduction of our robust logistical system fostered anti-American attitudes. However, he was not overly critical of men who harbored those beliefs. If the intellectual elite in our country and students at Ivy League universities were unable to differentiate between U.S. policymakers and those responsible for implementation of those policies, we shouldn’t be surprised such viewpoints existed here. His observation gave me a new empathy for my Vietnamese counterpart.  

During a moment of levity, Chuck shared his opinion on advisers’ “can-do” attitude. He said it was part of our makeup—but was a blessing and a curse. We tried hard to make improvements, and then felt guilty when our efforts fell short. He left me with the following thought: “Regardless of how hard you try, sometimes you simply can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit!”  

The 6th Airborne Battalion completed rebuilding and retraining at the end of May and was committed back into the Binh Long battle. It fought through the 7th NVA Division’s defenses and linked up with defenders manning the southern portion of An Loc’s perimeter on June 8, 1972. The 6th was the first unit to break the siege and was cited in the U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff history of the Vietnam conflict. My relationship with Dinh had vastly improved, thanks to Butler’s sage counsel and my ability to put U.S. bombs on target.  

On June 18, government officials declared the siege of An Loc broken and released the 1st Airborne Brigade (three ARVN airborne battalions, including the 6th) so the unit could join the fighting near the DMZ. Although the siege was officially lifted, the battle was not over. It took from June 18 to June 21 for the paratroopers to fight their way to Tan Khai, six miles south of An Loc. Tan Khai firebase was defended by the 31st ARVN Regiment and provided artillery support for An Loc. It was the furthest advance of the 21st Division and a thorn in the side of the NVA.  

U.S. helicopters were ordered to lift the 1st Airborne Brigade from Tan Khai to Lai Khe so preparations could begin for its air movement north. QL 13 was the designated pickup zone, although airmobile landings near the firebase would attract more NVA incoming artillery fire.  

The Last Time I Saw Chuck

During the lull preceding the arrival of helicopters, I made my way to the regimental command post to see Chuck Butler. Our short reunion was dampened by the news that Lt. Col. Burr Willey, adviser with the 32nd Regiment, had been killed by NVA fire on June 19. Chuck believed helicopters would energize NVA gunners who had forward observers seeded throughout the area.  

Ever concerned about others, Chuck told me to be careful and jokingly said: “The good Lord will look out for you but you have to help Him by not wandering around in artillery fire!” Our meeting was cut short when a radio call informed me the choppers were inbound. We shook hands. I wished him luck and said I hoped to see him again.  

It was a 15-minute flight from Tan Khai to Lai Khe, the 21st ARVN Division command post. When I arrived, Col. Ross Franklin met our flight. He was visibly shaken, with tears in his eyes. He told me that Chuck Butler had been killed when the bunker he was occupying took a direct hit, probably from a 130mm artillery round. I was in a state of disbelief. I told him I had just been with Lt. Col. Butler less than 30 minutes earlier. Ross Franklin said that I was the last American to see him.  

Charles Lewis Butler was 44 years old when he died. He had recently completed 22 years of Army service. He left behind his wife, Joan, and three children, a son and two daughters. He was laid to rest at West Point on July 5, 1972, where his commitment to the profession of arms began years before. Chuck Butler joined the legion of USMA graduates who made the ultimate sacrifice for our country. He was one of 333 West Pointers who lost their lives in the Vietnam War. Their service personified the academy’s motto: “Duty, Honor, Country.”  

Although five decades have passed since Lt. Col. Butler was killed on June 21, 1972, it seems like yesterday to me. Memories of him and those times are never far from my thoughts. He was very helpful during my initial days as an adviser and I meant to tell him so when we were together, but I missed the chance. It is a lifelong regret. I continue to mourn the passing of an outstanding soldier, a genuine war hero, and a friend.  

During the 1972 Easter Offensive, John Howard was an adviser with the Vietnamese Airborne Division, serving with the 6th Airborne Battalion and the 11th Airborne Battalion. He serves on the advisory board of Vietnam magazine.

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

this article first appeared in vietnam magazine

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In 1964, the Republic of Korea (ROK) dispatched soldiers to assist the Republic of Vietnam (RVN) in its fight against communism. Recovering from its own terrifying and bloody brush with communist aggression just a decade prior, ROK President Park Chung-Hee offered to help his ally, the United States, prevent another Asian country from turning “Red.” That first brigade of engineers, doctors, and military police grew to two Army infantry divisions and a Marine brigade within two years, fighting in some of the nastiest campaigns of the war.  

By the time ROK forces withdrew from Vietnam in 1973, over 320,000 Korean troops had rotated through the war zone—the second largest foreign contingent in the war after the U.S. Korean troops in Vietnam left behind over 5,000 dead, 11,000 wounded, and a hard-earned reputation as ferocious and stubborn fighters that continues to characterize the ROK armed forces today. Although born in the crucible of the Korean War, the ROK Army and Marine Corps were forged by their experiences in Vietnam into a modern and effective fighting force.  

South Korean Support For America

It is always the case that a long trail of logistics and support personnel makes it possible for brave men at the front to do brave things. This was no less true in Vietnam and proved just as necessary for the ROK during its first-ever combat deployment overseas. Without a global base structure of its own, the ROK relied on allies and partners to assist with the logistical support necessary to keep two infantry divisions and a Marine brigade in the fight. Clark Field in the Philippines and Ching Chuan Kang Air Base in Taiwan provided such assistance to South Korea and were integral to the 1972-73 Vietnam experiences of now retired ROK Air Force Col. Han Jin-Hwan.  

Col. Han joined the ROK Air Force in 1959 after graduating from Chung-ang University in Seoul. Trained as a weapons controller, his stellar service record and exceptional proficiency with the English language led to his selection to attend the Defense Language Institute at Lackland Air Force Base in Texas from 1964-65. Then he went to Weapons Controller School at Tyndall Air Force Base and the Air-Ground Operations School at Hurlburt Field—both in Florida—through 1966. Col. Han retired from the military in 1983 after a distinguished career and remains a civic leader in his community today.  

In autumn 2023, he agreed to sit down for an interview with Vietnam magazine—the first interview of its kind this magazine has featured—to share his experiences with readers in the United States.    

Col. Han, where are you from in Korea?

I was born and raised in Seoul, the capital of the Republic of Korea.  

What did your parents do and what was it like growing up?

My father [Han Sang-Jik] was a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Public Affairs. In 1950, when North Korea invaded, we couldn’t evacuate to the south and so were forced into hiding. A friend of my father’s talked him into coming out into the open where he was then captured by the North Koreans. That “friend” turned out to be a communist sympathizer.  

My father was taken North with many other public officials and we never saw him again. I was 12 years old at the time.  

I always remembered three things my father taught me: “If you start something, never give up until the very end,” “Always be diligent,” and, “Always be a good person.”  

Were you drafted or did you volunteer to go to Vietnam?

I volunteered, though not in the way you Americans did. I’d joined the ROK Air Force in 1959, and so in 1972 I was a major working directly for the Chief of Staff of the ROK Air Force. He asked me at the time where I wanted to serve next and I told him Vietnam.  

It was hard for Air Force officers to go there at the time as there were few of our personnel in Vietnam, so competition for the few slots was high. Since I asked the Chief of Staff directly, he agreed and made the arrangements.  

What inspired you to volunteer?

I felt strongly ever since 1950, when the United States came to our aid and helped our country beat back the communist North, that Korea owed a debt to the U.S. We were poor then with few modern weapons and little ammunition.  

A lot of equipment was shared with us and many U.S. soldiers died on our behalf. President Park decided the ROK would dispatch troops to Vietnam and I wanted to do my part to help repay that national debt.  

Did you receive any special training before deploying to Vietnam?

Due to the nature of my mission the only training I received took place at the Ministry of National Defense in Seoul.  

What unit did you serve in?

I served in the Air Force Support Group, with its headquarters located at Tan Son Nhut Air Base near Saigon. As it turned out, I only stayed there for three months before being dispatched to Clark Field in the Philippines as ROK Liaison Officer.  

When did you first arrive in country and what was it like?

Late May 1972, on a ROKAF C-54.Saigon wasn’t exactly the frontier. We stayed at a small hotel. The soldiers and airmen stationed at Tan Son Nhut didn’t really feel the war like the men did out in the jungle. Our infantry were at the front and fighting, but would come back to Saigon for rest and recovery. My wartime duty station was a recovery site for others!  

What was your mission there?

I handled all coordination for ROK personnel—military and civilian—moving between Korea and Vietnam. I managed a small village full of trailers for our people to overnight in when necessary. My NCO and I also provided escort duty to the medevac flights taking our wounded and dead from Vietnam back to Korea.

These missions were all-day flights for us, on ROKAF C-54 and C-9 aircraft specially adapted to transport litter and ambulatory patients. The medevac flights routed from Vietnam to Taiwan and then on to Daegu, Gimpo, or Gwangju Air Bases in Korea.  

During the layover in Taiwan I arranged for meals—regular or soft food—and handled all financial transactions required as well as making whatever arrangements were necessary with the nursing staff. After landing in Korea and unloading both our wounded and deceased members, we had four hours before the return flight to Clark. Those missions took all day starting with a 3 a.m. briefing at Clark and not returning till late at night.  

My duties required me to have dealings with the U.S. military hospital at Clark. That facility was very large and a lot of wounded and deceased U.S. soldiers came through there. I remember seeing so many coffins.  

Did anything surprise you about Vietnam?

You couldn’t tell friend from foe. You couldn’t look at someone and see whether or not they were communists. Because of this, the Support Group commander, Lt. Gen. Lee, instituted a curfew and so we weren’t allowed into the city at night.  

Did you interact with local Vietnamese and, if so, what did you think about them?

We used to visit “Chollum” [sic] market. At the time I bought a set of 10 ceramic plates decorated in a French style for my wife. I still have three or four. People in the market smiled at us and treated us nicely but we always wondered if they weren’t really communist at heart. That said, unit regulations prevented us from any significant interaction with the locals.  

How hard was it to do your mission, and how long did it last?

At times it was very difficult—especially the medevac flights—but I felt then that it was a job worth doing and I was honored to do it. I was very patriotic at that age and since I couldn’t go to the forward areas and fight, I really wanted to help those who’d been wounded doing so. There was a lot of job satisfaction for me there. Still, it was very hard for me to see our soldiers that way.  

It was a one-year tour for me, 1972 to 1973. Three months at Tan Son Nhut and then nine more at Clark.  

Do you recall any particularly memorable experiences while performing that mission?

So many. Some of our wounded had been blinded or lost limbs. It was pitiful to see them so badly injured. They were all so young, so full of life, but dedicated to the mission there and ready to sacrifice. I felt…it was just very pitiful to see them that way.  

Did you work with American troops in Vietnam? If so, what was your experience with them?

I didn’t really work with Americans in Vietnam, but of course I worked with so many stationed at Clark Field. I thought they were generally very good soldiers and very patriotic.  

How many trips did you make to Vietnam?

The medevac flights took place roughly once every three weeks or so. My NCO and I took turns escorting the medevac flights and so I made three or four trips back into Vietnam. He was a medical Technical Sergeant.  

Besides soldiers, what kind of people passed through Clark from Korea?

Lots of entertainers, assemblymen, even Miss Korea, but not many so late in the war.  

Was your family concerned for your welfare?

They were concerned, but I received combat pay while deployed to Vietnam and so that was good news. It was a lot of money for us back then and my wife saved up the excess pay to buy an apartment in Seoul. I remember my daughter was born halfway through my tour of duty, in 1973. Because I had access to the U.S. Air Force Base Exchange on Clark, I bought a bunch of baby clothes and sent them home to my wife. These things helped them and took their minds off the fact that I might be in a dangerous situation.

How did you feel when the U.S. withdrew from Vietnam?

It all kind of felt like a waste of time, and I hated the thought that the communists had won after all. It made me think that no matter how much help might be given, we could never change peoples’ ideology. It was the same with North Korea. The experience left me, if anything, even more anti-
communist, more dedicated to protecting our freedoms than before.  

When you returned to Korea from your deployment, did you face any negativity because of your experience in Vietnam?

No, none at all. The government thanked us for our service in Vietnam and gifted us our first color television and a new refrigerator. You laugh, but there weren’t many color TVs in Korea in 1973, so we felt special. The military handed us coupons upon our return and we just went into a store and walked away with the new appliances. Our going to the war really wasn’t a political or social issue back then, though you must remember we had a military government at the time so protests were difficult.  

Still, our participation in the Vietnam War didn’t become an issue at all until later, when left-leaning politicians used it for political gain. At the time, we were welcomed back home and those who returned with me just felt lucky to be alive.  

Have you been back to Vietnam since the war ended?

No…and don’t really have any desire to do so. That was a long time ago.  

Is there anything you would like to say to Vietnam veterans in the U.S. reading this story?

The U.S. veterans of that war were heroes for standing up to the spread of communism overseas. I think it was a very difficult experience for them and I appreciate it so much.  

What would you like young people to know about the Vietnam War?

War is a very cruel and difficult thing. My generation knew war and poverty, precisely because of communist aggression from North Korea and later North Vietnam. Our young must be thankful to their elders for all our sacrifices, but they know nothing of war or difficulty.   They can’t understand enduring poverty, death, and destruction because of the communists up north. It’s all ancient history to them—almost like a fairy tale. This is why they lean toward leftist ideas. They just don’t understand what happened the last time those ideas marched south.  

Is there anything you would like to add?

It seems rich countries always feel the need to help poorer countries.  

And yet the ROK was quite a poor country when it decided to help South Vietnam.

Yes, and in a strange way, it ended up being our nation’s pathway to material success and the prosperity you see in Korea today. Our sacrifice served our nation well.

This interview appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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Although its initials brand it as a sniper rifle, the Snayperskaya Vintovka sistemy Dragunova that Evgeni F. Dragunov developed in 1963 falls short of the chilling precision and range of a current state-of-the-art, bolt-action weapon for the specialized sniper in the appraisal of weapons expert Chris McNab in his latest Osprey offering. Most rifle aficionados class it as a designated marksman rifle (DMR), offering talented soldiers within standard infantry units good intermediary range, durable simplicity, and the ability to get off multiple shots because of its rare semiautomatic capability.  

Since its introduction into the Soviet armed forces, the SVD has found its way into fighting forces around the world and killed untold thousands. That apparently began with a slow trickle into the People’s Army of Vietnam around 1972, and U.S. intelligence agencies allegedly placed a $25,000 reward for any captured intact. One Soviet-made SVD-63 captured from the PAVN is shown in the book, but the weapon’s expense seems to have limited its introduction at a time when North Vietnam was going to prevail with or without semiautomatic sniper rifles. There were to be a lot more sniper duels in 1979, however, when China launched its invasion of Vietnam with its infantry units equipped with reverse-engineered 7.62mm Dragunovs, designated Type 79s, joined in later border incidents by improved Type 85s.  

Ironic though it may have seemed back then, Vietnam was by no means the only occasion in which marksmen wielding SVDs traded shots with one another. The author’s comprehensive rundown of the many conflicts in which the SVD played vital roles lists many fighters, including Afghans, Chechens, and Ukrainians, whose targets were—and are—Russian. The SVD Dragunov Rifle offers an in-depth look at the technology and history of a weapon which retains its importance on the battlefield after 60 years.

The SVD Dragunov Rifle

By Chris McNab. Osprey Publishing, 2023, $23

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In the words of one gunship navigator, Fairchild AC-119s “resembled a black and green Hostess Twinkie with wings.” Some nicknamed the aircraft the “Dollar 19.” The Air Force called them fixed-wing gunships. Enemy forces in the war feared these “dragon ships” with their tremendous firepower. However referenced, AC-119G “Shadows” and AC-119K “Stingers” were C-119 cargo aircraft converted to gunships in the late 1960s. Flown by skilled airmen and supported by exceptionally dedicated ground crew, these aircraft were highly effective during the war.  

How the Dragon Ships Began

The roots of the Shadow and Stinger gunships go back to Sherman Fairchild, an entrepreneur from the Golden Age of Aviation who founded many companies, including Fairchild Aviation. Fairchild produced aircraft such as the C-82 Packet, designed to replace early World War II transport aircraft such as the Douglas C-47 (the military version of the DC-3). Packets were redesigned with bigger engines and the cockpit moved towards the nose, becoming known as the C-119 “Flying Boxcar.”

First flown in 1947, over 1,100 were built with production ending in 1955. Boxcars had a 109-foot wingspan, two Wright R-3350-85 Duplex Cyclone engines (similar to those used in B-29 Superfortresses), a cruising speed of 180 knots, and a range of 1,600 miles. C-119s saw action in numerous unique missions, such as dropping prefabricated bridge components to U.S. Marines fighting their way out of North Korea’s Chosin Reservoir in 1950. Boxcars air-dropped French paratroopers at Dien Bien Phu in 1954 and completed midair retrievals of capsules containing spy satellite film of the Soviet Union in the early 1960s. As newer cargo aircraft such as the Lockheed C-130 became available, the C-119’s days appeared to be numbered—but one more mission, not foreseen by Fairchild’s engineers, remained.  

Independent of C-119 development, the military considered using fixed-wing gunships. Lt. Fred Nelson unsuccessfully promoted side-firing machine guns from an aircraft in the 1920s. In 1942, Lt. Col. Gilmour MacDonald revived the idea and promoted gunships for years, but the military remained unconvinced. Finally, Capt. Ronald Terry (often referred to as “the father of the gunship”) was given permission to test the concept in August 1964. The successful results led to Terry and Lt. Edwin Sasaki briefing Air Force Chief of Staff Gen. Curtis LeMay. LeMay approved further tests in Vietnam although most of his staff was opposed to the idea.

Other aircraft converted to gunships in Vietnam were the Douglas C-47 and Lockheed C-130. Secretary of the Air Force Harold Brown wanted to use the older and slower C-119 for this purpose, as he needed C-130s for transport duty. Seventh Air Force Commander Gen. William Momyer was opposed, as introducing AC-119s to Vietnam would require additional logistical support. Also, C-119s had a reputation for mechanical problems such as landing gear and engine mount failures, with some describing Boxcars as “thousands of rivets flying in loose formation.” Nevertheless, Brown contracted with Fairchild Hiller to modify 26 Boxcars to AC-119G Shadows by adding four 7.62mm Gatling guns. Fairchild modified another 26 Boxcars as AC-119K Stingers that added two multibarrel 20mm M61 cannon, a fire control system using an analog computer, night observation devices, and infrared equipment to search out targets.  

Two jet engines were added to supplement the propeller engines on AC-119Ks, increasing the Stinger’s chances of returning home if a propeller engine was lost. The added thrust also allowed for higher maximum takeoff weight (thus more ammunition) as well as enabling the flight engineer to reduce the power setting and the fuel mixture richness for the piston engines, curtailing the exhaust plumes and making optical tracking difficult for enemy gunners.  

“Screw the F-4s, get me a Shadow!”

Training for the AC-119 aircrews included gunship equipment, attack techniques, and basic understanding of the Vietnamese and Thai civilian populations. A “Shoot Down Board” at jungle survival school contained the names of Air Force personnel who were shot down or forced to abandon their aircraft over Southeast Asia. Instructors found that the board helped students focus on the matter at hand—especially as there were two blank panels on the wall to list additional names. Once in country, AC-119Gs were based at locations such as Phu Cat, Phan Rang, Da Nang, and Tan Son Nhut.

Missions included providing close air support for troops in contact with the enemy, and attacks against the enemy and supplies on the Ho Chi Minh Trail and Cambodia. American and South Vietnamese convoys would be protected by AC-119 gunships, while Forward Air Control aircraft would look for enemy troops preparing ambushes. Enemy forces often would not fire on the AC-119s as they knew the fire would be returned. Forces on the ground appreciated the work of the Shadows and Stingers. In one instance, a Special Forces commander on the ground, when advised of Phantoms coming to assist, shouted into his radio: “Screw the F-4s, get me a Shadow!”  

Flight altitudes varied based on many factors; firing at enemy personnel would often occur from about 2,500 feet Above Ground Level (AGL) using their miniguns and at about 5,000 feet AGL with 20mm cannon against vehicles. The AC-119s were busy. In 1969 alone they saw 3,700 sorties, 14,000 combat hours, and 35 million rounds of ammunition expended. Anti-aircraft fire was a constant risk—gallows humor on board referred to enemy fire going between the tail booms and horizontal stabilizer as “field goals.” While focused on the target, pilots used aircraft intercom to direct the gunship crew and the radio with ground forces. Extensive monitoring of all radio and intercom traffic was required and all on the gunship looked for anti-aircraft fire.  

Night mission Equipment

AC-119Gs typically had six crew on board for day missions or eight for night missions. AC-119Ks often flew with 10 airmen—a pilot, copilot, flight engineer, table navigator, Night Observations Sight (NOS) operator (who would amplify any available light and send coordinates to the fire control computer) and Forward Looking Infrared (FLIR) operator (both manned by navigators), gunners that loaded and maintained (but did not fire) the weapons, and an Illuminator Operator (IO).

The IO operated the flare launcher and the 1.5-million-candle power light (white light and infrared) at the rear of the aircraft and served as a jumpmaster if the crew needed to bail out. All guns were mounted on the left side of the aircraft, requiring the crew to fly in a continuous left bank orbit around the target; crews often preferred the term “orbit” to “circle.”

Vertigo and target fixation were serious dangers for pilots while flying the firing circle. The FLIR sensor was used to search for intense spots of infrared energy—which could be enemy soldiers or large animals. When the gunners weren’t loading or repairing guns, they supplemented the IO to spot anti-aircraft fire as “scanners.”  

The first AC-119 unit in country was the 71st Special Operations Squadron (SOS), composed of Air Force reservists who were stationed at Indiana’s Bakalar AFB. Gunship training for these airmen was completed at Ohio’s Lockbourne AFB. In December 1968, the 71st began deploying to Southeast Asia. This deployment represented the first time since the Korean War that Air Force Reserve personnel conducted flights inside a combat zone; missions began in early 1969. Some of the AC-119s, given their somewhat limited fuel capacity, took almost a month to make the flight from Lockbourne to South Vietnam.  

During its six-month deployment in the theater, the 71st completed over 6,200 combat flying hours on over 1,500 sorties. Members of the 71st earned numerous awards, including an Air Force Outstanding Unit Award, which mentioned the Reservists firing a relatively “sophisticated weapons system being battle tested for the first time, working often under intense ground fire, in periods of inclement weather, and almost totally during hours of darkness.” When the 71st returned home, about 65% of the personnel transferred to the active-duty 17th SOS, which flew AC-119Gs. The third unit seeing extensive action was the 18th SOS, operating with AC-119Ks.  

Crew Life

Numerous firsthand accounts are available that add perspective to crew life, both in the air and on the ground. Virtually all accounts mentioned how teamwork, technical know-how, and communication were essential in successfully completing the missions. In one example, Flight Engineer Jay Collars recalled when his AC-119 “took a .50 caliber hit through the right propeller oil line, severing the line and causing a runaway propeller. The aircraft immediately rolled and yawed left and began losing altitude.…While the pilots struggled to gain control, I (as flight engineer) began running the emergency checklist. Needless to say, for a few minutes there was a lot of scrambling on the flight deck.” Nevertheless, Collars’ crew managed to safely land the aircraft.  

Copilot Wayne Laessig described attacking ground targets. After completing the “Strike Checklist,” a pilot would say, “Copilot, you have the pitch.” The pilot controlled firing the weapons, using a pylon turn flying technique (a constant 30-degree turn), resulting in concentrated fire at ground targets. The aircraft commander/pilot flew rudder and ailerons, the copilot flew pitch, and the flight engineer worked the throttles and monitored the gauges—a three-man effort requiring extensive coordination. Laessig noted, “There wasn’t a single crew member on the airplane you didn’t need (for) the whole mission. Learning that was the best thing in my whole career.”  

The often-undermanned maintenance crews routinely worked 12-hour shifts and may have taken shortcuts to get the job done, given the high mission tempo. Crew Chief Jesse Lau wrote that occasionally the crew would “clean our engine up the ‘extremely unsafe’ way…the POL truck would pull up and we would fill up the tanks on both wings. After I’d get done fueling on the left wing, I would shoot the fuel from the hose into the engine and clean the engine that way. That’s extremely unsafe, dangerous, and guaranteed to get you a court-martial and jail time if you ever got caught doing that stateside. But…we ran into time constraints (as) there was a war going on.”  

Mission Risks

Gunners had a very challenging role. Everett Sprous, a gunner on AC-119Ks, loaded and repaired the 20mm Vulcan cannon (firing 2,500 rounds per minute) and 7.62mm miniguns (6,000 rounds per minute). Sprous recalled the noise: “The gunship was shaking so hard that you believed at any second the aircraft would come apart. The noise and smoke were so intense that it would take a couple hours after a mission to clear your brain. Gun barrels would turn red, then white, from bullets being fired at such high rates.” Reloading the 20mms required using a drill-like device weighing between 30 and 40 pounds while the aircraft might be in a steep banking maneuver. Scanners were always alert for incoming AAA and their calls for evasive action saved many aircraft and crew.  

Midair collisions were another risk, especially as numerous night missions were flown. On station over Cambodia, pilot John Windsor’s crew was talking to a FAC who claimed he was about 10 miles away. “Suddenly an OV-10 filled our windscreen,” he later described. “He crossed directly in front of us from left to right, and at our same altitude. He was flying with his exterior light off and was so close I could actually read his instrument panel.…To this day, I don’t know how we didn’t hit him with our right propeller.…This clown drove right across our nose at our altitude.” That FAC was ultimately shipped out.  

Two of the best-known missions were Stinger 41 and Stinger 21 (representing the aircrafts’ call signs). Both were representative of the challenges faced on any AC-119 flight—including enemy action, mechanical malfunction on the aircraft, and/or bad weather. On May 12, 1972, an AC-119K mission over South Vietnam (“Stinger 41”) was flown by Capt. Terence Courtney. This was a high-risk daylight mission near An Loc. Stinger 41 was heavily damaged by AAA fire, causing the loss of both right engines and a fire in part of the right wing. Courtney and copilot Lt. Jim Barkalow kept the heavily damaged aircraft aloft, allowing seven crew to bail out (and later be rescued), but the aircraft crashed.

Courtney was posthumously awarded an Air Force Cross for sacrificing himself and allowing most of the crew to survive. In addition to Courtney, Capt. David Slagle and Staff Sgt. Kenneth Brown could not get off the aircraft in time and died in the incident. The Air Force Cross award stated in part: “Control of the aircraft had become so difficult that Captain Courtney had to use all his strength to maintain control. [Courtney] wrapped his arms around the yoke to keep the aircraft’s nose from pitching down. When he could no longer control the aircraft, he ordered his crew to bail out…. His courage, gallantry, intrepidity, and sense of responsibility towards his fellow men overrode any desire…for his own self-preservation.”  

Stinger 21 involved a May 1970 mission commanded by Capt. Alan Milacek, who along with his crew were awarded the Mackay Trophy for the most meritorious flight of 1970 when their heavily damaged AC-119 was flown safely back to base. Hit by ground fire, the aircraft was about 90 minutes from Udorn, Thailand, with a series of mountain ranges to cross, including a 9,300-foot peak, on the return.

Milacek ordered the crew to toss out everything they could to reduce weight. Milacek and copilot Capt. Brent O’Brien nursed the plane back to Udorn. Inspection of the damaged aircraft revealed that more than 14 feet on the leading edge and more than 17 feet on the trailing edge of the right wing were missing, with damage to the right outboard aileron and to a fuel tank at the end of the wing. Milacek was heard over the intercom as the aircraft went onto the taxiway at the end of the runway: “Thank you, Lord, thank you.”  

A Changing War

While the AC-119s and their crews were compiling a distinguished combat record, the war itself was changing. As American participation in the war wound down, President Nixon’s Vietnamization program began turning the war over to South Vietnam. Part of that effort included AC-119 personnel training their Vietnamese counterparts, such as Air Force Capt. Hoa Ngoc Bach. He later fled from the South after the communist takeover and came to the U.S. as a refugee at Camp Pendleton, California.

With the assistance of navigator William Gericke, Bach secured housing, learned to drive, and became an American citizen. Changing his name to Harold Hoa Bach, he sponsored 21 family members in coming to America, and had a 28-year career in the auto industry.  

As the war concluded, AC-119 crews returned to the U.S. while the aircraft remained behind. The military record of the AC-119 was assessed in a Contemporary Historical Examination of Current Operations report, which concluded that the AC-119G was an extremely useful weapon system, performing a variety of missions above and beyond its primary mission of close air support. The AC-119K was an excellent truck killer and proved equally useful in providing close air support for troops in contact. AC-119 crews “performed assigned tasks with resourcefulness, overcoming equipment limitations through operator skill.”  

What the air crews and ground support personnel accomplished was remarkable. Seventeen airmen that were part of the Shadow and Stinger missions were killed in action. These personnel all demonstrated a high level of courage, skill, and dedication to duty while completing these missions, flying aircraft originally designed as cargo haulers.  

While popular and political support for the war was dwindling, the crews, whatever their rank, maintained a high level of camaraderie, teamwork, and desire to successfully complete the missions, while saving countless lives of those on the ground.  

Barry Levine works at the Henry Ford museum in Dearborn, Michigan, vol- unteers at the Yankee Air Museum in Belleville, Michigan, and writes on a variety of aviation and history topics. His most recent book is Michigan Aviation: People and Places that Changed History.

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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Among the many myths and legends to emerge from the Vietnam War was that the U.S. Navy’s Vought F-8 Crusader was “the last of the gunfighters” and the only air superiority fighter of its time. Although the Crusader did pack four Colt-Browning Mark 12 20mm cannons at a time when other American fighters were relying on air-to-air missiles, its cannons were unreliable and virtually all Crusader victories over its Mikoyan-Gurevich-designed opposition were achieved using AIM-9 heat-seeking missiles.

It is true, however, that the Crusader established the highest kill-to-loss ratio over Vietnam, destroying 14 MiG-17s and four MiG-21s for the loss of three F-8s—all to the older but agile MiG-17s. The second of the downed Crusader pilots, Cdr. Dick Bellinger of fighter squadron VF-162 off the aircraft carrier USS Oriskany, was credited to Ngo Duc Mai on July 14, 1966, but the American survived and on Oct. 9 gained a unique revenge when he shot down Nguyen Van Minh, who also ejected just before his plane crashed, the third MiG-21 downed in Vietnam and the first credited to a U.S. Navy fighter.  

Straddling truth and myth on the other side is Vietnam’s crediting of an F-8E to Pham Ngoc Lan as Vietnam’s first air-to-air victory on April 3, 1965. That date is still celebrated as Vietnam People’s Air Force Day, in spite of the documented fact that Lt. Cmdr. Spence Thomas of USS Hancock’s VF-211 managed to get his damaged Crusader to Da Nang, where it was repaired and returned to service.  

In the seventh in Osprey’s “Dogfight” series, F-8 Crusader, Vietnam, Peter E. Davies combines his extensive research, including interviews and combat reports, to give the reader an in-cockpit glimpse of what it was like to fly and fight in the plane. For all the successes described within its niche of aerial combat, however, the author does not shy away from including the wider, deadlier world in which the plane operated, harboring the dangers of surface-to-air missiles and ground fire, which added up to the highest operational loss rate of any U.S. tactical aircraft.

F-8 Crusader, Vietnam 1963-1973

By Peter E. Davies, Osprey Publishing, 2023, $23

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Willie Johnson was a 35-year-old African American from South Carolina with a wife and six kids. What did I, a 20-year-old single white kid from Quincy, Mass., have in common with him, other than being stationed in Vietnam with the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment? Well, living with someone in an Armored Cavalry Assault Vehicle (ACAV) for five months will make for close relationships.

Willie was a career soldier, our first sergeant, a leader, advisor, confessor, and friend. He was firm but fair and full of life. He taught me to play pinochle, a card game I never played before and have never played since. I never called him Willie, but always “Top.” He was killed by a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) a few feet from me.  

Near the Cambodian Border

On March 5, 1970, we moved from a location near the Cambodian border to a place just four or five miles away. The rolling terrain was a challenge for our 12-ton armored vehicles. We arrived at our night defensive position just before dusk and deployed our 20 ACAVs similar to how covered wagons would circle in Western movies. The track commander was Capt. Max Bailey, who sat on top of our vehicle behind a .50-caliber machine gun. The driver was Don, whose last name I forget. Top and I were the rear gunners behind M60 machine guns. I dismounted our track, set up trip flares covering our part of the perimeter, and positioned Claymore mines in front of our vehicle.

We had been in constant contact with the enemy for months and were always prepared for battle. Our enemy was not the Viet Cong but the North Vietnamese Army (NVA), and we never knew where or when they would hit us. I was still awake at probably around 10:00 p.m. when I heard the distinctive thump of a mortar tube being fired. Seconds later the first rounds hit in and around our perimeter. This was followed immediately by a barrage of enemy AK-47 and RPG fire.

We responded with volleys of machine gun and tank cannon fire. With 20 vehicles firing at once, the sound was deafening and the smell of cordite filled the air. Ground and aerial flares lit the night sky. Claymore mines exploded all around as the enemy closed in. The enemy attack died down after about 20 or 30 minutes. Bailey dismounted our vehicle and walked the perimeter to check on damage and wounded. Top, Don, and I pulled up more ammunition for our weapons.

The Fateful Call

Top received a call from Bailey that some enemy wounded had been spotted in a bomb crater a few ACAVs down from us. We had a directive from our headquarters’ G-2 Intelligence that if possible we should take prisoners for interrogation. Top would never order someone to do something he wouldn’t do himself. So he jumped off our vehicle and told Don and me to follow him to get more information. Bailey confirmed there were two or three NVA wounded about 20-40 meters from our perimeter.

Without blinking, Top said: “Let’s go get them.” So Top, Don, Bailey, and I lined up about five meters apart and headed for the bomb crater.  

We made it about halfway to the crater when a figure jumped up with an RPG and fired at us. The rocket landed between Top and Don who were at the end of our line. We received more mortar and RPG rounds, followed by small-arms fire. I hit the dirt and returned fire at the shadowy figure. I lost sight of the other three as bullets whistled above me. I was caught about 20 meters outside our perimeter.

Bad News

Just as concerned about friendly fire from behind as enemy fire in front, I crawled back to our perimeter. I looked for Top, Don, and Bailey but couldn’t find them. As the battle raged, I returned to my ACAV, took my position and continued to return fire. When the other three hadn’t returned, I assumed they jumped on other ACAVs to continue the battle. Eventually things quieted down. This time we were sure the enemy had retreated.  

Some time later, Bailey returned to our vehicle and told me that Top was killed by the RPG round and Don was wounded. Bailey was also wounded but continued to lead the battle and was awarded the Silver Star for his efforts. I was stunned. I had been in country for 10 months and through a lot. Although other men in my unit had paid the ultimate sacrifice, this was different.

Because I was so close to Top, it hit me hard. What made it worse was having to stay alert and man my vehicle in case of another attack. There was nothing I could do except live with the thoughts going through my head. You don’t plan for someone to get killed so you don’t know how to react.

At first light I went over to the medical area and saw Top’s body on the ground covered with a rubber poncho. I can’t remember if I cried, but I was in a state of disbelief. Here was a person I truly respected, confided in, told stories with, and a few short hours earlier had been laughing and joking with, and now he was gone.  

A Step Closer to Closure

At my computer about 33 years later, I went to the 11th Armored Cavalry website and scrolled to Top’s name on a list of 700 troopers killed in Vietnam. Over the years I’ve thought about him many times and wondered about the family he left behind.

I saw a message that made me freeze. It was signed by a Ricky Johnson who wanted to hear from anyone who had served with his dad. I summoned the courage to give Ricky a call. It was extremely emotional. Ricky was 11 years old when his father was killed, and the Army never told the family how he died.

It was difficult for me to recount the events, but it was a step closer to the closure that neither of us will probably ever achieve. Memories fade with time but for the rest of my life I will remember my friend Willie and all that he taught me. To all the Willie Johnsons who never came home, may you always be remembered.  

Adapted from the author’s book, 11B10: Memories of a Light Weapons Infantryman in Vietnam.

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

At around noon on May 2, 1972, two SR-71 Blackbirds dropped to 75,000 feet and flew separate Mach 2.5 passes over Hanoi, delivering two sonic booms within 15 seconds of each other. Their mission was vital and their timing critical. A third SR-71 had orbited offshore as a spare in case something forced one of the others to abort. The planes’ pilots and crew didn’t know the mission’s purpose, but executed it perfectly. The mission was repeated two days later.  

The SR-71s had flown through the world’s most densely defended air space to deliver a message from America’s National Command Authority to a group of U.S. prisoners-of-war (POWs) held inside North Vietnam’s Hoa Lo Prison, better known as the “Hanoi Hilton.” The message consisted of two dots for the letter “I” in Morse code, telling them to “initiate” their escape plan. Thus began the final stages of Operations Diamond and Thunderhead, the Vietnam War’s last POW escape and rescue plan.  

The United States had attempted POW rescues before, with the Son Tay Raid of Nov. 21, 1970, being the best known. But Operation Thunderhead was different. This time the plan originated within the POW camp itself. The primary authors of the plan were Captains John Dramesi and George C. McKnight of the U.S. Air Force and then-Lt. j.g. George T. Coker of the U.S. Navy. The men called their escape plan Operation Diamond.  

All three had attempted to escape before, only to be recaptured within 36 hours. Coker and McKnight had escaped from a POW compound northwest of Hanoi in 1967, while Dramesi had made two previous attempts, the second one from the Hanoi Hilton. He had been moved there following his first escape attempt from a camp farther up the Red River. The men suffered weeks of torture as punishment for their actions. In fact, Dramesi’s partner in his second breakout, USAF Capt. Edwin L. Atterberry, died on May 18, 1969, ostensibly from an infection while under torture just eight days after their recapture.  

The Escape Plan

Undaunted, Dramesi refused to give up on escape. One challenge he faced was opposition from the majority of his fellow POWs. The prisoners had heard Dramesi’s and Atterberry’s screams as the guards beat them, and they knew that their comrades had managed to gain only a few hours of freedom. The POWs would not betray Dramesi but a standing order from the Senior Ranking Officer (SRO) in the Hilton’s “Unity” compound, Lt. Col. Robinson “Robbie” Risner of the U.S. Air Force, required that no escape would be attempted without outside assistance. However, Risner approved the formation of a six-man escape planning committee led by Lt. Col. Hervey Stockman. Coker, Dramesi, and McKnight were joined by Maj. James H. Kasler and Capt. “Bud” Day, both USAF.  

The POWs started work on their escape plan immediately, gathering all the information they could about guard patterns, the prison layout, and the surrounding community. One of the many things Dramesi had learned from his last attempt was that their “camp” was located a few miles east of the Red River, not north of it as they had believed when they went over the wall on May 8, 1969. Gathering food supplies was a challenge since the Vietnamese provided little to the prisoners, leaving little to spare.  

The greatest impediment to progress was the constant shuffling of the prisoners and senior officers. Day, Stockman, and Risner were transferred out of Unity by December 1970. Risner’s replacement as SRO came in from the “Zoo,” another section of the Hanoi Hilton, where he had vehemently opposed any attempt to escape. He and several others had been tortured and beaten after Dramesi’s last escape attempt. Although Risner had allowed the planning to go forward, the new SRO kept changing conditions and requirements for his approval. Despite his skeptical response, the team continued planning with August 1971 as the “launch date.”  

To stand out less after their escape, the three prisoners developed a dye to darken their skin and made civilian-looking clothing by knitting and hand-sewing threads from the blankets and sweaters the guards provided, and by scrounging rags and other discarded materials from around the compound. They also made a map of the compound and surrounding area, along with a compass and simple time piece. All the materials except a tactical radio were ready by June.  

League of Wives

However, the SRO rejected their plan, stating the escape had to have a 90% probability of success as well as approval from higher up in the chain of command. Communicating their plan to higher U.S. authorities seemed impossible. Letters were allowed out on an almost random basis and the prison authorities reviewed them closely. Prisoners were punished severely if the “censors” found anything suspicious in the letters.  

Nonetheless, one of the committee members took the chance and incorporated a carefully worded message in a letter home. The League of Wives of Vietnam Prisoners of War delivered it to Secretary of Defense Melvin Laird in late February/early March 1972. The details were slim by necessity but the letter stated a group of POWs were going to escape from the Hanoi Hilton in June 1972 by stealing a boat and making their way to the Gulf of Tonkin via the Red River. It sought official U.S. approval and support of their plan. The number of POWs was not mentioned and the tentative dates were the first two weeks of June. It also wasn’t made clear if the stolen craft would signal with a yellow or red flag. It wasn’t much information to go on and little is known about whom Laird contacted first. However, it is clear that he had either delegated the authorization decision to Adm. Thomas Moorer, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, by March 31, 1972, or ordered him to launch the rescue.  

Moorer wanted to move the planning outside of Washington, D.C. He was very concerned about leaks, which had become a major problem over the previous two years. He directed that all early communications were by courier or face-to-face meetings. Neither known nor suspected leakers were informed. Moorer sent an intelligence officer, Lt. Cdr. Earle Smith, to inform Commander-in-Chief of the Pacific Fleet Adm. Bernard Clarey at his headquarters in Pearl Harbor and Vice Adm. James Holloway, Commander of the 7th Fleet, aboard his flagship the USS Oklahoma City (CLG 5) in Yokosuka, Japan. Lt. Cdr. Edwin L. Towers was appointed officer-in-charge of Operation Thunderhead and given 48 hours to develop the plan.  

Enter Special Forces

The forces Towers was given included the nuclear-powered cruiser USS Long Beach (CGN-9), the Frigate USS Harold E. Holt (FF-1074), and Det 110 HC-7, a Combat Search and Rescue Detachment from the USS Midway (CVA-41). Its SH-3 helicopters had infrared sensors, precision navigation systems, and carried a 7.62mm minigun and two M-60 machine guns. Towers knew he needed Special Forces and a means of delivering them. Operations security remained paramount.  

The cover story given to the ships’ captains and helicopter detachment commander was that they would be recovering North Vietnamese defectors. Seventh Fleet planned to launch air strikes and naval gunfire attacks on coastal radar stations and sites to draw Hanoi’s attention. Moorer classified the operation as “top secret” and all communications had the added “special category” caveat to further restrict distribution. Only those directly involved in Operation Thunderhead were given access to the reports.  

The SEALS’ Mission

Towers had little to go on but was aware of SEAL Team 1’s Alpha platoon stationed at White Beach, Okinawa, and the USS Grayback’s (APSS/LPSS-574) involvement in special operations. The Grayback picked up a squad from Alpha platoon on April 10 and transported them to Subic Bay in the Philippines by the 13th. Towers flew there to brief the submarine’s skipper, Cdr. John Chamberlain, USN, and then the SEALs and Underwater Demolition Team (UDT) led by Lt. Melvin Spencer “Spence” Dry and Lt. jg. John Lutz, respectively.  

Towers told the skipper, UDT, and SEAL leaders that the coming mission was to attack the North Vietnamese radar site that had directed coastal artillery fire against the guided missile destroyer USS Buchanan (DDG-14) earlier that month. The SEALs were to go ashore in Z-birds (high speed inflatable boats powered by an outboard engine).  

UDT Detachment 11 (UDT 11) was not included in the early briefings, being told only they “might be needed.” The UDT trained on the “new” Mark VII Mod 6 Swimmer Delivery Vehicles (SDVs), or “Six Boats,” while the SEALs conducted night infiltration, demolition, and small unit tactics. The 2-ton SDVs required two UDT operators and carried two fully equipped SEALs or UDT personnel for delivery. The submersibles were roomier than the earlier models and had an onboard air supply the crew and passengers would use while in transit to their release area.  

Pleased with the progress, Towers notified 7th Fleet they would be ready in time and departed for Yokosuka. There he briefed Holloway. Towers was to embark on the Long Beach and take station 50 nautical miles off the North Vietnamese coast by May 19. He was ordered to transmit a daily top secret SPECAT situation report to the Commander Seventh Fleet, Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. HC-7’s Det 110 began its surveillance patrols off the Red River Delta on May 19, and would continue them until June 19.  

To North Vietnam

The Grayback departed Subic 18 days after the SR-71s delivered their first “midnight message.” Once at sea, the SEALs and UDT personnel were told the direct-action mission was a ruse. Their “real mission” was to rendezvous with North Vietnamese defectors and protect them until they could be picked up by helicopter. The SDVs were to deliver two SEALs to an island in the Red River mouth to monitor for small craft carrying a red or yellow flag. A second team was to be inserted two days later and the first team withdrawn back to the Grayback.

The SEALs were to use their best judgment in identifying the defectors’ craft. Once they had the “defectors in hand” they were to signal Towers for helicopter pick up. They were not told the real mission even though they were at sea with no outside contact. The embarked intelligence officer had been told that if a SEAL was captured, there was a risk any un-rescued POWs would be executed or “worse.”  

The SEALs adjusted accordingly. Dry walked his people and the UDT personnel through the plan as the submarine made its way to station. They worked daily and watched a lot of movies but Dry was not certain about the intelligence material. The SEALs had operated in the area and were familiar with the tide and currents at and near the surface. This would be their first time using SDVs and other than a brief walk-through in Subic, his people had never used them. He trusted the UDT operators but he would have liked to have trained with them before the submarine got underway.  

Meanwhile, POWs Dramesi, Coker, and Mc-Knight finalized plans for their escape. They expected heavy rains in June and noticed power outages often accompanied the storms. They would wait for power failure and then move to the river and either swim or steal a boat as the situation required. The Red River in that area consisted of a complex series of tributaries, streams, and dikes. The three men intended to follow the right branch of any fork in the river that they encountered to reduce the SEALs’ search area. They found little enthusiasm among their fellow prisoners, but no direct opposition. Whatever the other POWs thought about the escape, they would do nothing to impede it. Communicating was a challenge with the North Vietnamese watching almost their every move. Also, the Vietnamese often moved the senior officers around to complicate communication efforts. The guards hoped they were inhibiting the American leaders’ ability to command their subordinates in the camp. The SRO in Dramesi’s cell block rejected the plan in late May but offered to take it to the next most senior SRO. That meeting took several days to arrange.  

Trouble Underwater

As the escape team awaited a final decision, the Grayback stalked silently beneath the Seventh Fleet and arrived on station about four nautical miles from the Red River mouth late in the evening on June 3. The sub settled on the bottom of the Gulf in approximately 80 feet of water. Later that evening, Dry decided to conduct a reconnaissance of the island. Departing the Grayback at 2 a.m., he and newly promoted Warrant Officer Philip L. “Moki” Martin boarded the “Six Boat” piloted by Lt. jg. John Lutz and Petty Officer 1st Class Thomas Edwards.  

They had launched at “slack tide,” the period between the end of waters receding from low tide and the beginning of high tide. The intention was to have the incoming tide negate the river current. However, North Vietnam’s heavy rains and the minus tide—a low tide much lower than normal—had combined to create a nearly 4 knot current. The SDVs maximum speed was five knots. Making less than 50 yards a minute, the SDV’s batteries burned out more than 1,000 yards from shore.  

Recognizing that the currents rendered the plan impractical, Dry decided to contact Towers for helicopter pick up. He transmitted “Briarpatch Tango,” the code words for Thunderhead personnel in trouble. Towers immediately sent an SH-3. Dry needed to return to the Grayback and inform the skipper and his team of the current. Dry and Martin helped the UDT swim the SDV farther out to scuttle it in deeper water but they lacked the means to do. Towers dispatched a helicopter from the Long Beach that sank the SDV with a minigun and returned the four men to the cruiser.

They had no way to contact the Grayback until the scheduled broadcast time later that evening. Dry briefed Towers and the captain of the Long Beach on what he had discovered. Towers agreed that they needed to get word to the Grayback right away. Unfortunately, communications technology of the time limited their options. It would take nearly a day.  

That day passed with Grayback being unaware of Dry’s difficulties. Dry’s Deputy Lt. Robert Conger went ahead with the plan, embarking on an SDV for the island. After he departed, the Grayback received a signal that Dry needed to return to the submarine. Chamberlain moved away from the launch point and agreed to rendezvous the helicopter using an infrared spotlight mounted on the submarine’s periscope.  

Tragedy for the SEALs

Dry and Martin briefed the helicopter crew  on the “casting procedure” by which they would land in the water and descend onto the submarine operating at periscope depth. Martin emphasized to them that they had to descend below 20 feet and that the combined helicopter and wind speed had to be 20 knots or less. The pilots had never done anything like it before. The wind and seas were higher than normal as well and the sky was overcast. Visibility was almost nil.  

Shortly after the helicopter departed Long Beach, Grayback sent an emergency message reporting that a North Vietnamese patrol boat had departed base and was en route to the rendezvous area. Chamberlain ordered the cruiser to abort the delivery. It wasn’t received in time. The helicopter reached the rendezvous area and all onboard struggled to find the Grayback’s beacon. Night-vision equipment was bulky and proved nearly useless but the cockpit crew tried their best.  

Twice, the helicopter dipped its tail into the sea, nearly swamping. Neither pilot could spot the infrared beacon. Martin couldn’t see the prop wash that would signal they were low enough to drop. Twice the helicopter approached a red light, only to discover it was a Vietnamese fishing boat. The pilots were getting antsy. They were flying less than six nautical miles offshore, well within North Vietnamese waters. Fuel was running low. The pilot was running out of options. If he didn’t find the sub beacon within the next few minutes, he would have to abort and return to Long Beach.  

Then, spotting what they thought was the Grayback’s infrared light, the helicopter crew turned towards it and lowered to drop the four men. Unfortunately, the pilot gave the drop signal when the helicopter was above 20 feet and being pushed by a 20-knot tailwind. Dry was killed on impact with the water. Edwards and Lutz were seriously injured. Martin was uninjured but shaken.  

A nautical mile away, the second SDV had malfunctioned. It wouldn’t go forward and wouldn’t surface. So Lt. jgs. Conger and Tom McGrath, Petty Officer Sam Birky, and Seaman Steve McConnell had to abandon it submerged and swim to the surface. It was their infrared distress light that the helicopter had spotted, placing Dry and the others close by. Conger, McGrath, and McConnell encountered Martin and Lutz at about 4 a.m. They were less than 2,000 yards from shore and could hear what they believed were North Vietnamese patrol boats in the distance. Dry’s body floated by at around 5 a.m. but Birky was still missing.  

Conger was able to contact the Long Beach shortly before sunrise and a helicopter arrived shortly after 7 a.m. It found and picked up Birky along the way. The crews of both SDVs were returned to Long Beach. Dry, Edwards, and Lutz were evacuated to the USS Kitty Hawk (CVA-63), which had a morgue and better medical facilities.  

Lessons Learned

The Grayback’s crew knew something had gone wrong with the SDVs but had no information on what or why. The intelligence officer called the senior remaining SEAL, Petty Officer First Class Rick Hetzell, to the wardroom (the officer eating and meeting area). He ordered him to gather a team and prepare for surface insertion using the submarine’s Z-bird. He also wanted him to use the silenced outboard to ensure a covert insertion and tried to put one of the submarine’s Chief Petty Officers in charge of the mission. The “discussion” went back and forth but the chief finally realized he was not value added and opted out.  

Upon learning the rescue team survivors were aboard Long Beach, Chamberlain offered to transfer them by Z-bird. He and the SEALs hoped to continue the mission but Typhoon Ora intervened. The Grayback returned to Subic transiting on the surface to save time, only to be engaged briefly by USS Harold E. Holt, whose crew mistook her for an unidentified hostile contact. The helicopters continued their searches until June 19 without ever spotting any POWs in stolen boats.  

The Thunderhead team didn’t know it, but the SRO had ordered Dramesi and his mates to stand down. He felt the war was coming to an end and he didn’t want the POWs to suffer the physical abuse and potential fatalities that might follow an escape attempt, even if it succeeded. Operation Homecoming finally started bringing the POWs home on February 13, 1973.  

Lt. Melvin S. Dry was the last American SEAL to die in the Vietnam War. Because of its highly classified and compartmentalized nature, Operation Thunderhead remained all but unknown and its participants unrecognized until 2008. Dry was posthumously awarded the Bronze Star with a V for Valor while Moki Martin received the Navy-Marine Corps Medal with a V for Valor. It was America’s last POW rescue attempt and it would have failed even if the SEALs had made it ashore successfully, since the POWs never escaped from the Hanoi Hilton. Despite that, the mission reflected America’s national commitment to bringing “everyone home.”

A thorough investigation followed and most of its lessons learned resonate to this day. Towers did an outstanding job in the planning and execution of Operation Thunderhead but excessive secrecy, the justification for which ended when the Grayback left port, reduced if not eliminated his ability to modify plans in the face of equipment and operational setbacks. The transport delivering Special Operations Forces (SOF) needed to be integral to the SOF unit to ensure mutual familiarity and commitment. The helicopter pilots did their best but were conducting a sensitive and dangerous evolution for the first time in their careers and under very difficult circumstances in enemy territorial waters.  

Also, hopefully leaders now recognize that prisoners in remote undeveloped countries have little capability to escape on their own. It is best to go to them once they are located. And there were the equipment failures as well. The Mark VII SDVs shortcomings were addressed by the introduction of the Mark VIII SEAL Delivery Vehicles in 1982.  

Capt. Carl O. Schuster, U.S. Navy (Ret.), is a career naval officer who served on many U.S. and allied warships before serving at U.S. Pacific Command’s Joint Intelligence Center. He serves on the advisory board of Vietnam magazine.

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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The word “propaganda” evokes many images, few of them positive. We often think of propaganda as sinister attempts to brainwash a population into embracing authoritarian political systems, with posters typically part of the effort. History has shown that it’s indeed easy for propaganda to turn ugly—governments have long utilized it to indoctrinate a population to act in ways that it normally would not, and to demonize people and views. Nazi Germany’s vilification of Jews is an obvious example.

But propaganda is often more subtle and can often be attempts to simply inspire and promote the shared values and objectives of the community. Take Uncle Sam “wanting you” to defend America during World War I, Britain’s “Keep Calm” posters of the Second World War, and the strength behind the let’s-all-pitch-in message of Rosie the Riveter.

Propaganda from North And South

The ongoing conflicts in Southeast Asia—from the French Indochina wars beginning in the late 1940s through the U.S. withdrawal in 1975—was a classic case where winning over the population was half the battle. At its heart, the Vietnam War was a civil war.

Here are a series of posters, many quite rare, extolling the virtues of both the communist North and the democratic South—all efforts to win the hearts and minds of the people of Vietnam. Poster art had a long tradition in Vietnam. Because 80% of the population was still illiterate as of 1945, the power of imagery was critical in promoting viewpoints, conveying ideas, and inspiring people to action.

For the North, the artists’ message often tried appealing to the population’s sense of community and country, while also attempting to recruit solders for the fight. Meanwhile, the South tended to focus on rallying the population to fend off the wider specter of communist aggression—a focus encouraged by the United States. By 1969, the U.S. had produced more than 23 million propaganda posters and pamphlets for South Vietnam.

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This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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This formerly classified analysis of media coverage on the Vietnam War was prepared by famed journalist and war correspondent Edward R. Murrow for U.S. National Security Advisor McGeorge “Mac” Bundy in 1963.

In the document, Murrow arrived at the conclusion that major media in most other countries around the world displayed virtually no support or sympathy for the government of Ngo Dinh Diem, with the exception of the staunchly anti-communist South Korea, the Philippines, and to a lesser extent Thailand. Bundy served as a presidential advisor until retiring from the role in 1966.

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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In one of the most outstanding memoirs that this reviewer has had the privilege of reading, retired U.S. Army Col. Henrik “Hank” Lunde gives a detailed account of his life experiences and strug-gles during the Vietnam War and beyond. Lunde served three tours in Vietnam, first commanding a rifle company with the 1st Brigade, 101st Airborne Division before going on to serve as Brigade S-3 and battalion executive officer for the 9th Division, becoming a deputy operations adviser to II ARVN Corps and eventually commanding a Special Forces battalion from 1972-73. He was Chief of Negotiations for the U.S. delegation to the Four Party Joint Military Team (FPJMT), negotiating with North Vietnam to account for dead and missing. He also went on to serve as Director of National and International Security Studies for Europe at the U.S. Army War College.   

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Leaving Norway

Lunde was born in Norway in 1936 and emigrated to the U.S. as a teenager. The early part of his memoir provides a fascinating and poignant glimpse of his hardscrabble beginnings in Norway and his family’s experiences. Living on the small island of Risoy in western Norway, he watched dogfights between British and German planes overhead and once had a dangerous encounter with German officers searching his family home during World War II. As a boy he was enthusiastic about stories involving military history and leadership, reading the Old Norse Kings Sagas by Snorre Sturlason, playing military-oriented games, crafting bows and arrows, and even (without his parents knowing) experimenting with gunpowder.

After moving to the U.S., Lunde had difficulty adapting to his new home, struggling with English and experiencing bullying. He overcame these challenges and eventually settled on pursuing a military career, as he “felt the best way to repay my new country’s opportunities was to serve the nation in some capacity.”  

Insights Into Warfare

Lunde’s memoir has many merits. His writing is packed with detail. His style is concise but informative, enlightening the reader in crisp but illuminating sentences. In addition to possessing great personal courage, Lunde has great analytical powers that come across throughout the book. He demonstrates a far-reaching ability to evaluate all manner of problems and situations from various angles. Lunde’s personality comes alive in his book. He is highly organized, professional, firm, patient, self-controlled, and also extremely humble and conscientious. There are plenty of war stories in the book which will interest readers not only because of events described but because of how Lunde analyzes factors within each situation.  

Perhaps what stands out most of all in his autobiography is Lunde’s wisdom about warfare and human nature. Writing on human emotions in war, he says: “The emotion of hate has no place on the battlefield, despite what Hollywood movies portray. It interferes with a soldier’s logical reasoning process, leads to loss of self-control, self-respect and pride in the unit. Hate is ruinous to discipline and morale.” Lunde acknowledges that while elements of hate or malice “are practically impossible to eliminate in an environment where friends are killed or maimed…I am proud to say that these elements were kept on a tight rein by a group of exceptionally fine NCOs and officers.” He states, “I told my troops to fight like tigers but conduct themselves with honor.”  

There is much military wisdom to be gleaned from Lunde’s writings and this makes his autobiography a must-have for any military historian. It is also a wonderful read for anyone simply seeking to read about and appreciate the life and experiences of a very fine soldier. “If I were ever again to find myself in a tight and dangerous combat situation, Hank Lunde is the one man that I would most desire to have at my side,” wrote the late Lt. Gen. Henry Emerson of his comrade. Emerson also praised Lunde as an “effective and brave combat leader” and a “magnificent soldier.” This reviewer heartily concurs.

Immigrant Warrior: A Challenging Life in War and Peace

By Henrik O. Lunde. Casemate Publishers, 2023, $52.95

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This review appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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In autumn 1969, I was stationed in a bunker on the radio. I was to communicate with the perimeter guards and helicopters if in trouble. If we were attacked, I was the one that blew the sirens. The infantry would scream on the radio, “Rockets in the air!” That was my cue to blow sirens. This particular month we changed our radio call sign from Roadrunner to False Minder. The operating manual was sent to all stations on my network. Our orders were not to answer someone using the wrong call signs.  

Hawk 6

Evidently generals do not have to read these manuals each month. One day the commanding general of the 1st Aviation Brigade was flying to my base. He was known as Hawk 6 on the radio. So he called on the radio, “Roadrunner, Roadrunner. Hawk 6.” He was not using the right call sign, so I did not answer.

Radio operators’ standing orders are to obey proper radio procedures, one of which is to only answer proper call signs. That is a security standard. It prevents the enemy who could be monitoring our network from identifying all the units calling on a network. The general must have thought he was out of range, so a few minutes later I heard, “Roadrunner, Roadrunner! This is Hawk 6.”

This is when I did the bravest thing I did in Vietnam. I did not answer. Despite the orders not to answer someone using the wrong call signs, I was scared. I knew I would pay a price for this. I heard the anger in his voice when he came back with, “Anyone on this net know where Roadrunner is?” The response came in, “I don’t know, sir.” In two sentences all sorts of security violations occurred. One, by a general. The other referring to him as “sir.”

Enter The Captain

He was only calling for a ride. Let him walk like everyone else, I thought. I can only imagine what the door gunners and crew chiefs thought when they saw a general walking.  

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The next person I saw was my captain. He came running into the bunker. His face was as red as Santa Claus’s suit. He was screaming, “Did you hear Hawk 6 on that radio?” I said, “Yes, sir.” That shocked him. There were only two ways I would not hear him: I was not there (AWOL) or asleep (dereliction of duty). Both were court-martial events.

“Why didn’t you answer him?” demanded the captain. I replied, “He was using the wrong call signs.” For a moment he did not know what to say. Then he said, “I don’t care if he calls you ‘Asshole’! You answer Hawk 6!”If I were truly brave, I would have asked for that order in writing, but I was a 20-year-old kid and he was as angry as any man I ever saw and had a .45 on his hip. I thought he might shoot me. And I had June 15, 1970 [the day I would leave Vietnam] on my mind.  

I was sure there was a court-martial in my future, but if my defense was going to be that the general was using the wrong call signs, no one was going to embarrass a three-star general. I wondered where the list was of orders that you are not supposed to follow. I also wondered if my captain, when he reported back to the general, had the moxie to tell him that he was using the wrong call signs.

Good Decisions?

In November we changed our call sign to Roadrunner. When I left Vietnam in June, we were still Roadrunner. Apparently not troubling a general was more important than radio security.  

I Googled the general years later because I wanted to see who he was. It was Allen Burdett Jr. When I read about him, it said he loved to be known as Hawk 6, so I knew I had the right guy. The other thing I read about him [from the Army Aviation Association of America] was that “in a subsequent Vietnam tour, he commanded the 1st Aviation Brigade during 1968-1970, tough and demanding years in the Vietnam War, where, as Hawk 6, he was known throughout Vietnam for his astute planning and tactical acumen.”

Acumen means the ability to make good judgments and quick decisions. To me making good judgments means reading your operating manuals and using the correct call signs. Compare this story to Adm. McCraven’s writings on duty.  

After leaving Vietnam in 1970, James Vaughn became a CPA and ran his own tax practice.

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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Shortly after 2:00 a.m. local time on June 4, 1972, just a few miles off the North Vietnamese coast, U.S. Navy Lt. Melvin S. Dry and three naval special warfare personnel departed the USS Grayback (LPSS-574) aboard a Mark VII Swimmer Delivery Vehicle (SDV). Dry intended to reconnoiter the beach area where his team was to rendezvous with a group of escaped American prisoners-of-war (POWs). But a combination of stronger than expected offshore currents and the Mark VII’s limited battery capacity forced him to abandon the mission 1,000 feet from shore. A Navy helicopter ultimately sunk the SDV with miniguns to prevent it falling into enemy hands [see our story on p. 20], before delivering Dry and the rest of the operations team to USS Long Beach (CGN-9), the command ship for Operation Thunderhead, America’s last POW rescue attempt of the Vietnam War. The Mark VII SDV lacked the power and endurance to overcome the currents and sea condition. Operation Thunderhead was aborted.  

The U.S. Navy’s first production model Swimmer Delivery Vehicle, the Mark VII derived from a post-World War II review of Underwater Demolition Team (UDT) operations. The study called for a covert underwater delivery means for UDTs when water conditions, depth, and distance made it unwise or impractical for the teams to reach the target by swimming directly from a submarine. UDT made do with the Italian-developed World II-era Mark 6 Sea Horse until 1967, when the U.S. Naval Coastal Systems Center modified the General Dynamics Convair 14 midget submarine.  

The resulting Mark VII Mod 0 was a free-flooding design with a reinforced fiberglass hull. Nonferrous metals and sound dampening insulation were used throughout to minimize the SDV’s magnetic and acoustic signatures, respectively. A gyroscope constituted its only navigation aid. It had a single rudder and propeller, the latter driven by a small electric motor powered by a single bay of silver-zinc batteries. It had a 40nm range under ideal conditions but considerably less against powerful currents and seas.  

The Mark VII underwent several improvements after 1972. The Mod 6 variant of 1975 featured a larger hull, greater payload capacity, and a high frequency sonar for precision navigation underwater. It also incorporated an emergency surfacing capability. Still, it remained underpowered and in 1983 gave way to the Mark VIII SEAL Delivery Vehicle that remained in service until 2023.  

Mark VII Mod 2 SDV

Crew: 4 UDT & SEALs
Length: 5.7m/17ft 8 inches
Beam: 1.6m/5ft 6 inches
Surface Displacement: 2,200lbs
Propulsion: Electric Motor Driving 1x Propeller
Max Speed: 5kts
Max Range: 40nm
Operating Depth: 50–60ft

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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Award-winning actress and singer Ann-Margret is known for her commitment to entertaining U.S. troops during the Vietnam War. In 1966, she responded to a request signed by over 3,000 troops to perform for them and traveled to Vietnam with three bandmates on a USO tour, traveling to Saigon, the USS Yorktown, and the dangerous “Iron Triangle.”

Despite the danger, she said she was determined to do the best job she could and was not worried for her safety because she felt protected by American servicemen. She focused on bringing them joy from home. She returned to the war zone two years later with Bob Hope’s Christmas USO show.

She continues to support military service members and was honored by the USO in 2003 with the Spirit of Hope award, named after her friend Bob Hope. “I am very proud to be an American. Always will be,” she told Vietnam magazine Editor Zita Ballinger Fletcher in an exclusive interview.

Ann-Margret shared insights into her wartime experiences and new limited-edition perfume, with all profits benefiting the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund, available at www.ann-margretperfume.com.  

You received a petition from troops in Vietnam in 1966 asking you to come perform. The war was unpopular and Vietnam was dangerous. What motivated you to go there despite those obstacles?

Honestly, I didn’t think about my safety at all at the time. I was very flattered by those signatures. Nothing would have stopped me from going.  

What did your family members think about you going to Vietnam?

Well, they knew how much I wanted to go, and they of course were worried but I said to them, “There’s no way anyone can get to me because…my guys are there!”  

What songs did you most enjoy performing there?

I loved doing “Dancing in the Streets.”  

You toured with Bob Hope on the USO Christmas Show in 1968. What was it like to work with him?

I loved working with Bob and did many times over the years. He was a gentlemen and always, always funny on stage and off. He was devoted to the soldiers. He shared many stories with us about traveling during World War II and all the marvelous and touching letters he received from them and their families. He was great at writing back, too.

When Bob and I were rehearsing our dancing for a duet for the tour he came out in a minidress and asked, “Who looks better, me or Ann-Margret?” I won, but he did get a couple of votes from the crew.

We knew that we would be safe. When I did Vietnam with Johnny Rivers there were just four of us, and when we went with Bob Hope there were 80 of us. We weren’t afraid at all, never. We all just wanted to bring a piece of home to those men.

What do you think young people should know about the Vietnam War today?

Our guys went through so much—and when they came back, some people were not very nice to them. They had to go through a lot, and to come back and have people be bad to you…We need to show respect and admiration for all the men and women who served, always. Never forget.  

You are donating 100% of the proceeds from your new limited-edition perfume to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund. Can you tell us more about this?

Yes, thank you for asking. My dear friend Justin Chambers of Grey’s Anatomy has wanted to make a fragrance for me for a long while since we worked together. So it’s a project that’s been on the drawing board. When he suggested it benefit the veterans, that was a slam dunk for me. I absolutely adore the fragrance.

We worked on the actual fragrance for a year before we selected this special scent. It has notes of gardenia and jasmine and ylang ylang. You can visit my website for all the details at ann-margretperfume.com and I’ll be wearing it. You can count on that!  

You are a strong supporter of Vietnam veterans. Is there anything in particular you would like to say to Vietnam veterans reading this?

I love you all and I am proud to have been there with you.

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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Henry Kissinger, U.S. national security adviser and later secretary of state at the height of the Vietnam War, died on Nov. 29 at the age of 100. His polarizing career saw him serve every president from John F. Kennedy to Joe Biden, with achievements that included masterminding a new relationship with communist China, softening the Cold War friction with the Soviet Union through a diplomatic policy called détente, and eventually negotiating the withdrawal of U.S. troops from Southeast Asia and ending the Vietnam War, for which he was co-awarded (with North Vietnam’s Le Duc Tho, who declined his) the 1973 Nobel Peace Prize.

Born in Germany in 1923, young Kissinger and his Orthodox Jewish family emigrated to the United States in 1938 as the Nazis’ anti-Semitic policies ramped up. He was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1943, where he served as an interpreter in his native Germany as World War II was coming to an end—and where he saw firsthand the threats from the communist East that he feared were intent on upending democracy.

The intellectual Kissinger enrolled in Harvard in 1950, and soon began developing diplomatic theories of “realpolitik,” advocating for calculated foreign policies that delivered practical results, sometimes at the cost of a perceived larger morality. He was known and respected for his ability to broker high-level negotiations between nations with diametrically opposed ideological viewpoints. The BBC notes that Kissinger was the only American to have personally interacted “with every Chinese leader from Mao Zedong to Xi Jinping.” In a testament to his ability to interface between nations with opposing worldviews, Kissinger’s passing was mourned in China as well as by leadership of the European Union.

Nonetheless, Kissinger’s approach to politics and diplomacy, which decidedly influenced U.S. foreign policy over the course of many decades, was controversial during his lifetime and remains so after his death. Kissinger was straightforward about his belief in separating morality from political affairs. Former Deputy National Security Adviser Ben Rhodes argues in The New York Times that Kissinger’s brand of realpolitik “mistakes cynicism — or realism — with wisdom.” A tribute featured in The Independent however praises Kissinger’s approach as “his finest of attributes”.

Rising quickly through the U.S. government’s ranks, it was during his tenure as national security adviser to President Richard Nixon in 1969 that Kissinger’s sense of realpolitik played out most controversially. Kissinger instituted a strategy of heavily-bombing Cambodia, a theoretically neutral country but long a sanctuary for North Vietnamese forces and resupply in the Vietnam War, to disrupt the flow of enemy troops and equipment.

While the policy may have had military merits, the bombing was too little, too late to have a strategic impact on the war’s outcome, and the deaths of tens of thousands of Cambodian civilians in the bombings remains a cloud on his record. The bombing, contends Rhodes, “did nothing to improve the terms on which the Vietnam War ended; if anything, it just indicated the lengths to which the United States would go to express its displeasure at losing.”

All the same, Kissinger negotiated the end of the war after years of talks with North Vietnam, resulting in the Paris Peace Accords of 1973 and the withdrawal of American troops. South Vietnam fell two years later when Hanoi broke the accords, invaded South Vietnam and overran the country within weeks.

Kissinger stayed on as secretary of state under Nixon’s successor, Gerald Ford, until 1977. He continued advising future presidents on a myriad of topics. He counseled U.S. President George W. Bush and controversially supported the Iraq War. He lectured and published books and policy papers for many years, and remained actively engaged in foreign policy discussions until his death.

Debates about Kissinger’s legacy will continue. An article published in The Rolling Stones blasted him as “a war criminal” immediately following his death. Marking his passing, U.S. Secretary of State Anthony Blinken hailed him as someone who “really set the standard for everyone who followed in this job.”

As for Kissinger himself? He was well-aware of the criticisms he faced but appeared to have been unfazed by them. “I’ve been thinking about these problems all my life…the recommendations I made were the best of which I was then capable,” he later said. With regard to the Vietnam War, Kissinger was typically matter of fact: “We did the best we could.”

Fans of sniper stories will likely be excited to read this account of the life of Chuck Mawhinney, the top scoring U.S. Marine sniper to date. Mawhinney joined the U.S. Marines at age 18 and served in Vietnam from 1967-69, where he made 103 confirmed kills over a period of 16 months, killing four enemies a week on average.  

The book, penned by writer Jim Lindsay based on in-depth interviews with Mawhinney, is written in a down-to-earth style that is easy to read. Readers will feel like they are getting to know Mawhinney as they progress through the book, which recounts the famed sniper’s early life and his postwar experiences in addition to his time in Vietnam. Readers who enjoy listening to soldiers telling their war stories over a few drinks or in a casual setting (like this reviewer) will likely enjoy the style in which the book is written, because it is very much as if you are listening firsthand to Mawhinney’s stories.  

Readers looking for an in-depth account of Mawhinney’s war in Vietnam may be somewhat disappointed because the narrative is not a complete account of his experiences. The Vietnam War portion of the book consists of several Vietnam War stories from Mawhinney rather than a complete chronicle of his time in country. There are probably many more stories that will forever remain untold. Mawhinney himself was satisfied with the book. “This is the whole story. I think Jim did a good job,” he told Oregonian newspaper The Baker City Herald. Some readers, however, may be left wanting more.  

Obviously one of the qualities of a good sniper is a certain degree of ruthlessness. This is evident in Mawhinney’s actions described throughout the book, from shooting animals in his youth, ambushing enemies throughout the Vietnam War, and in his postwar life exterminating coyotes. The passages dealing with these matters are not gory but matter-of-fact. Some readers may admire Mawhinney’s proficiency at killing while others may find it disturbing. Readers who are sniper fans or familiar with snipers’ memoirs will likely not be bothered by these anecdotes.  

Mawhinney has a sense of humor which is reflected in many of the stories he chose to tell. One passage that stood out for its ironic humor related how Mawhinney struggled to adjust after being sent to assist an ROK Marine unit. He went on daily patrols with the South Koreans, with whom he could not communicate due to the language barrier. He remembered the Koreans as “ornery” fellows who at first surreptitiously swatted him with sticks to annoy him while he was walking. He had difficulty adjusting to patrol duty since the ROK men did not set up a perimeter when resting. “Instead of creating a perimeter, they dropped wherever—maybe in the hut of an abandoned village or they’d just curl up along a trail, leaving Chuck wide-eyed and sleepless,” author Lindsay writes. “If a sound woke the Koreans, they’d grab their weapons and run out into the dark to investigate. If an enemy was caught alive they just beat him to death and went back to bed.” While the Koreans eventually gained respect for Mawhinney due to his sniper skills, he also “considered the ROK some bad-ass dudes and was glad they were on his side.”  

All in all, Mawhinney is a rather reserved character which is reflected by the material included in book; the Vietnam War takes up a significantly smaller portion of the book than one might expect. The narrative is engaging and reflective. Readers hoping for a sensational shooting saga or a blow-by-blow account of a sniper’s lethal achievements in Vietnam will feel let down. Readers eager to read and appreciate the memories and experiences of a humble Vietnam War veteran and Marine who happens to have been a sniper will be more than satisfied.

The Sniper: The Untold Story of the Marine Corps’ Greatest Marksman of All Time

By Jim Lindsay, foreword by Chuck Mawhinney. St. Martin’s Press, 2023, $38.82

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This review appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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Land mines were used by all sides during the Vietnam War and caused significant casualties. In 1965 alone, more than one-third of U.S. Marine Corps casualties were caused by mines and explosive booby traps. A modern land mine is a concealed explosive device emplaced under, on, or even above the ground to kill or wound enemy troops, or destroy or disable vehicles.

The land mines of the Vietnam era were triggered by direct contact or command-detonated by wire. The most common contact triggers were pressure or pull (tripwire). Anti-personnel mines used a combination of blast and fragmentation effects. Most anti-vehicular mines used blast effect. Land mines are most effectively used in fixed defenses or for “area denial.” Rather than serving as a barrier to enemy movement, the purpose of a defensive minefield is to disrupt and slow an enemy’s advance and channelize him into pre-planned fields of fire and kill-zones.  

Why Land Mines?

Land mines were used by both sides in contested and remote areas. The U.S. deployed millions of air-dropped small anti-personnel “button mines” as part of the McNamara Line strategy to deter NVA infiltration into South Vietnam from North Vietnam and Laos. The explosive charge in the button mines decomposed quickly. Only slightly more effective were the BLU-43/B and BLU-44/B “Dragontooth” mines. The VC made extensive use of anti-personnel mines and booby traps in likely American/ARVN assembly areas, high ground, hedgerows, tree lines, shady areas, trail junctions, and fence lines and gates.

The VC normally did not have enough material to mine an entire fence line. U.S. troops quickly learned to bypass the gates and batter down the fence at some distance from the gate. Yet all too often a later patrol would assume that an already battered-down section of the fence was clear.

The VC, however, were highly disciplined about keeping their mines under surveillance. As soon as one patrol passed through a cleared area, the VC would move in and mine the gap. The VC were methodical about marking their mines so that their troops or local villagers would not walk into them. The markers were cleverly concealed, but known to locals. American and South Vietnamese patrols generally tried to secure cooperation of one or more locals before initiating an area sweep. That was not easy. Villagers might be VC sympathizers or intimidated by other sympathizers who would hold them accountable later.  

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Types of Land Mines

Command-detonated anti-personnel directional mines were widely used. The U.S. M-18 “Claymore” mine blasted 700 steel balls in a 60-degree arc, 6-feet high, out to a range of about 150 feet. The Claymore was triggered by an electrical blasting cap via a wire with a hand generator.

The VC used any Claymore they captured. The VC and NVA were also supplied with the Chinese-made DH-10 Directional Mine, known as the “ChiCom Claymore.” Crudely made but larger and more powerful than the U.S. M-18, it was devastatingly effective when emplaced in a tree, pointed down a jungle trail. The VC also used the DH-10 to mine anticipated helicopter landing zones.  

The standard U.S. anti-personnel mines were the M-14 and M-16. Called the “Toe Popper,” the M-14 was a pressure-triggered blast mine with a relatively small charge. The M-16 was a fragmentation mine designed after the World War II German S-mine, called a “Bouncing Betty.” When triggered, either by stepping on one of the exposed pressure prongs or pulling a tripwire, a short delay fuze detonated a secondary charge which blew the main body of the mine 5 to 6 feet into the air. A second, slightly longer-delayed fuze then detonated the main charge, spraying fragmentation out to 25 meters.  

An Enduring Menace

Anti-vehicular mines were used to destroy or disable trucks, armored personnel carriers, and sometimes tanks. They were either pressure- or command-detonated by wire. Road-clearing became an almost daily ritual, especially around major bases. Sweep teams of combat engineers with mine detectors worked the roads each morning, while flank security teams screened both sides of the roads looking for evidence of digging, detonating wires, and even ambushes. It was slow and tedious.  

Although North Vietnam manufactured mines and some were supplied by China, the majority of mines used by communist forces in Vietnam were improvised. Enemy forces in Vietnam were exceptionally innovative at turning anything into a mine—including captured or unexploded ordnance such as hand grenades and mortar and artillery shells; ammunition cans; oil drums; beer and soda cans; and even bicycle frames. Triggering devices included flashlight batteries, wristwatches, field telephone hand cranks, and mousetraps.

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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On June 8, 1969, U.S. President Richard Nixon and Republic of Vietnam (RVN) President Nguyen Van Thieu stood side-by-side at Midway Island and formally launched Vietnamization. The goal was to allow U.S. operational combat forces to depart South Vietnam as quickly as possible before the next U.S. presidential election, leaving South Vietnam able to defend itself. Seven months after this announcement, I arrived in Cam Ranh Bay as a replacement headed for the U.S. Army’s 1st Signal Brigade. I was about to have a front row seat on Vietnamization in practice as a quality assurance NCO. Communication technology is an essential combat support function, which Gen. Creighton Abrams, U.S. commander in South Vietnam, had identified from the beginning as critical if South Vietnam’s Armed Forces were to defend their country on their own.

The short time projected for Vietnamization was inadequate for the South to build an effective national defense force with sufficient training to wage modern warfare effectively. Such a project can require years—especially when the local government’s social, economic, and political foundations have been stunted by a century of colonialism and nearly two decades of violent internal turmoil. From my vantage point in South Vietnam throughout most of 1970, these obstacles to rapid Vietnamization appeared insurmountable.

Insurmountable Obstacles

I reported for induction on Oct. 14, 1968, went through basic training at Fort Bliss, Texas, and received orders for advanced training at the Electronic Warfare School at Fort Huachuca, Ariz. Completing the high frequency radio operator course (MOS 05B) in five weeks, I remained at Fort Huachuca as an instructor. With controversy over the war growing, the Army was having trouble getting junior NCOs to reenlist. Instructors were needed. On Nov. 14, 1969, after only 13 months in service, I was promoted to Sergeant E-5. Near the end of November, the training company’s first sergeant called me into the orderly room, looked across his desk, and said, “Congratulations, Sgt. Anderson, you’re going to Vietnam.”

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I landed at Cam Ranh Bay on Jan. 6, 1970, with orders to report to Company C, 43rd Signal Battalion at An Khe in the Central Highlands. The 1st Signal Brigade’s clerk at the 22nd Replacement Battalion, a buck sergeant like me, modified the original orders. I literally went up the hill from the replacement center to the 361st Signal Battalion. I could not believe my luck. Cam Ranh was a large and secure combat base. In the evenings off duty, we wore civilian clothes, and there were a lot of creature comforts with barracks, hot showers, mess halls, snack bars, clubs, a big PX, and a beach just over the hill.

There was a problem, however. My MOS was 05B4H: high frequency radio operator, NCO, instructor. My personnel folder also listed college graduate, high-speed code intercept operator, French linguist (based upon Army testing and six semesters of college French), and a secret-cryptology clearance from my work at Fort Huachuca. The 361st operated tropospheric scatter microwave facilities, and the Table of Organization and Equipment (TOE) of this high technology installation that could transmit almost 200 miles did not include any slots for high-frequency radio operators.

The operations sergeant was on his third straight tour in Vietnam, all at the same job. We called him “Grandpa” behind his back, which was a term of respect because it sure looked like he ran the whole battalion. I knew virtually nothing about tropospheric scatter communication, but Grandpa was pleased to have me, mainly because I was a college graduate who could type and compose a complete sentence. I soon discovered that everyone in the office except the sarge were college graduates. He immediately put me to work as the author of various monthly and quarterly reports but soon realized that I had a more valuable skill—French language ability.

Vietnamization had created an urgent need for a linguist. The operations officer was a signal corps major with an ARVN signal captain as a counterpart. The ARVN officer was in the battalion to learn to manage this integrated wideband communication site. The American officer had studied Portuguese at West Point and didn’t know any Vietnamese. The South Vietnamese captain spoke French but little English. With no training as an interpreter and only basic conversational French, it became my job to help the two officers communicate.

In the 361st Signal Battalion, Vietnamization in 1970 hinged on an American officer mentoring an ARVN officer to take command of a highly technical facility through the hand gestures and college French of a sergeant whose expertise was tactical, not long-range communication, and whose French was better suited to translating Molière than to conveying military technology. The mentoring process was slow and not, I am sure, what Washington envisioned Vietnamization to be. As bad as the situation was for efforts to Vietnamize the 361st Signal Battalion across a serious language divide, the ad hoc process received a further setback with my sudden transfer out with no apparent way to bridge the language gap. The commander of the 1st Signal Brigade later acknowledged in his lessons-learned study that the language barrier hampered training.

A Daunting Task

Brigade headquarters at Long Binh refused to issue permanent orders assigning me to the 361st because my MOS was not authorized for that type of unit. It transferred me to 12th Signal Group at Phu Bai for assignment somewhere in I Corps, the five northern provinces of the Republic of Vietnam. On Feb. 9, I got off a C-130 at Phu Bai airport. I waited in the transient hooch at Headquarters, Headquarters Detachment, 12th Signal Group with my duffle bag packed. I could be off to any of the radio telephone/teletype sites the brigade operated in support of the 101st Airborne Division (Airmobile); 1st Brigade, 5th Infantry Division (Mechanized); III Marine Amphibious Force (MAF); 1st ARVN Division; 2nd ARVN Division; or Republic of Korea Marine Brigade. I could expect to spend the next seven months at a division or battalion headquarters, if I was lucky, or a small remote site if I was less fortunate.

As it turned out, I soon learned that I was going to be the group’s quality assurance NCO in charge of a small team of three or four currently being assembled. Col. D.W. Ogden Jr., the group commander, had created the team and its “communication evaluation” mission because, I was told, he was tired of complaints from the combat commanders (termed “customers”) about the quality of signal support from 1st Signal Brigade. The combat commands had their own signal assets, but depended on the 12th Signal Group to link their tactical networks to others in the corps tactical zone and from there to the Integrated Communication System [ICS], Southeast Asia and to worldwide networks operated by the Strategic Communications Command at Fort Huachuca. The technology of this vast system—sometimes referred to as the AT&T of Southeast Asia—was powerful. Through tropospheric scatter, line-of-sight microwave, cable, and other electronic assets, a commander could connect securely by voice, teletype, or data from a combat bunker to anywhere in the world as long as 1st Signal Brigade units in the field kept the complex system up and working.

It was a daunting task for well-educated and thoroughly trained signal soldiers with access to reliable equipment. Would the ARVN be able to manage this critical military infrastructure on its own, especially in the short time that Washington had allowed to accomplish Vietnamization? A new brigade regulation had created Buddies Together (Cung Than-Thien) to train Republic of Vietnam Armed Forces signalmen in highly technical communications skills. Units like ours were also expected to conduct surveys by special teams in each corps tactical zone to determine where American operators could turn over equipment and operations to the South Vietnamese.

My team consisted of an electric generator mechanic (another sergeant), a radio operator (one of my students at Fort Huachuca), and a draftsman. The latter two were SP4s and served as drivers or guards or were assigned other tasks. We usually traveled with the group’s engineering officer and the sergeant major from his office. The colonel had wanted a sergeant first class (E-7) to be the NCO, but senior NCOs were in short supply. He settled for me because of my education and instructor experience, and my rank was at least a hard stripe NCO. There were fewer than 10 E-5 and E-6 NCOs in the group headquarters. The team’s sergeant major (E-9) traveled with us primarily to back me up if the issues at the site turned out to be related to command or personnel problems.

Inexperienced Operations

The U.S. Army history of military communications in Vietnam describes the urgency of the task at hand. The recently completed Automatic Digital Network (AUTODIN) could transmit an average of 1,500 words per minute, but the tactical teletype circuits to which it was connected passed traffic at 60 to 100 words per minute. Signal operators experienced continuous maintenance problems with their overextended machines. In the summer of 1970, the Da Nang tape relay received 20 flash messages (highest precedence) in a 20-minute period from the AUTODIN. This signal company had to relay these messages to the tactical units on its circuits at 100 words per minute, which required about 20 minutes per message. This volume of traffic overheated the recipients’ equipment, requiring transmission to be slowed to 60 words per minute. As the official history records, “Besides such technical problems, tactical operators lacking special training on the operation of the new Automatic Digital Network were bewildered by its formats and procedures. The 1st Signal Brigade had to keep troubleshooting teams constantly on the road to help inexperienced operators.”

The group’s Operational Report-Lessons Learned (ORLL) for July and October 1970 recorded major emphasis on improved communications through quality assurance inspections. Working seven days a week, we were responsible for maintaining the efficient and effective performance of installations operated by 17 units in 5 provinces. The QA team conducted 57 site inspections in six months to improve equipment maintenance, operator efficiency, site operating procedures, and customer satisfaction. According to the ORLLs, “Partly due to the effort of the Quality Assurance team the high standards of customer service provided by units of the 12th Signal Group were maintained or bettered.”

The smallest detail could become significant when dealing with modern electronics. In northern I Corps the soil was red clay (red mud in the rainy season and red dust other times), which made it extremely difficult to establish a working electrical ground for the system. In some cases, poor signal quality or even interrupted transmission was owing to where and how deep the metal grounding rods were installed. Without this basic setup at a tactical location, all the immense technical power to connect the corps level and global system was of no use. It was a variation on the “for want of a nail” adage. In this case, for want of a ground, the message was lost; for want of a message, the battle was lost.

My job took me to signal sites from the DMZ southward to the Batangan Peninsula. Traveling usually by UH-1 Huey helicopters, we went to Camp Carroll (the 1st ARVN Division’s forward command post just south of the DMZ), Quang Tri, Dong Ha, Tan My, Hai Van Pass, Da Nang, Hoi An, Tam Ky, Chu Lai, Duc Pho, and Quang Ngai. Our work also included small fire bases and landing zones: Hawk Hill (5 miles northwest of Tam Ky), LZ Sharon (between Quang Tri and Dong Ha), and FB Birmingham (southwest of Camp Eagle, headquarters of the 101st Airborne, about 5 miles from Phu Bai). We went by road to sites in Phu Bai, Hue, and Camp Eagle.

We tried to get into and out of a site (especially remote ones) in one day without having to stay overnight. On one occasion, because helicopters were unavailable and a signal problem at III MAF needed urgent attention, I went from Phu Bai to Da Nang in an open jeep along Route 1 over Hai Van Pass with only one other soldier to ride shotgun. That we could make that drive at all indicated that by 1970 the level of enemy activity along this key road had declined significantly. My sense was that the enemy was not deterred by the growing size of the ARVN but was waiting for U.S. troop withdrawals to continue. Unknown to me was the CIA’s Special National Intelligence Estimate of Feb. 5 that “Hanoi may be waiting until more US units have departed, in the expectation that this will provide better opportunities with lesser risks, and that Communist forces will be better prepared to strike.”

Phu Bai was a large and relatively secure base. It was not Cam Ranh Bay, but there was a sign at the front gate proclaiming, “Phu Bai is Allright.” It received periodic mortar and rocket bombardment, especially aimed at runways, helipads, and signal towers. Signalmen are soldier-communicators who provide specialized skills and defend their installations against enemy attack. Our detachment had responsibility for about five perimeter bunkers and had a quick reaction team in the event of an assault on the base. With the shortage of junior NCOs in the detachment, I drew the duty as sergeant of the guard, reserve force NCO, or staff duty NCO at least one night a week.

Vietnamization

Most nights were uneventful, but occasionally I was NCOIC during probes of the perimeter or other imminent threats. One occurred during my last month in Vietnam. Perhaps Charlie knew I was short, because enemy bombardments and ground probes of Camp Eagle, nearby Camp Evans, and Phu Bai increased markedly in July and August 1970. Actually, the enemy was testing the progress of Vietnamization and not targeting me specifically.

There were ARVN troops at many of our bases, but most of them provided perimeter security, manned artillery pieces, or handled supplies—not operating signal equipment. Similar to what I had witnessed at the 361st Signal Battalion, there were a few ARVN officers and NCOs shadowing American counterparts, but I observed little interaction or hands-on communication activity by Vietnamese.

Aware of Vietnamization goals, I wrote to my parents: “The Vietnamization program is really going on in earnest over here.… Even 12th Sig. Gp. is getting in on the ARVN training program. We have about 20 ARVN at various sites in the Group receiving on-the-job training on a buddy system basis.” In retrospect, my estimate of 20 ARVN signalmen over a five-province area suggests that the number being trained was woefully small. With the exception of Camp Carroll, an ARVN command post, I seldom heard Vietnamese spoken at signal facilities.

An exception came when my team worked at a line-of-sight microwave installation near Chu Lai. A group of American military and civilian officials appeared. There were ARVN signal soldiers at the site. A high-ranking U.S. officer asked the American signal officer escorting them how long it would be before the Vietnamese would be ready to assume operation of this station on their own. After a long pause, he reasonably estimated about eight years. Enlisted ARVN signalmen had an approximately sixth-grade education. It required two years or more of hands-on experience for American soldiers with high school diplomas to develop the technical knowledge and problem-solving skills needed for this military occupation. The Nixon administration’s timetable for Vietnamization and turning over the defense of the RVN to its own military was measured in months—not years.

Lt. Gen. Walter Kerwin, a senior U.S. adviser, had estimated in 1969 that it would take five years for the ARVN to be self-sufficient. Washington’s goal was to have Vietnamization completed by January 1973. My former unit, the 361st Signal Battalion, had been designated as a test of 1st Signal Brigade’s buddy effort to turn over the fixed communication system to the South Vietnamese Signal Directorate. That initiative explains the presence of the ARVN captain in the battalion S-3 while I was there. That unit’s 1969 ORLLs assessed that South Vietnam’s armed forces lacked the “broad scientific and technical education base…to allow takeover of the ICS in [a] short time frame.” This study projected a minimum of four years for the South Vietnamese to take control and more realistically eight to 10 years.

 As my return to the United States neared, entire U.S. combat units were leaving the RVN. The 1st Signal Brigade’s primary mission of support for U.S. forces was narrowing. Gen. Abrams had wanted to keep a residual U.S. combat support element to bolster Vietnamization, but the Pentagon mandated sweeping reductions.

I left Vietnam on Sept. 8, after 1 year, 10 months, and 26 days active duty and 8 months and 5 days in Vietnam. The 12th Signal Group soon afterward relocated to Da Nang, as U.S. commanders consolidated their remaining strength and transferred their signal assets to the ARVN. American aid paid private contractors to operate the network as a stopgap to meet the South’s military communication requirements, but the days were almost gone when the U.S. Congress and public would pay the bill.

In my two assignments as an impromptu interpreter and as a quality assurance NCO, I experienced some of the problems with Vietnamization. Studies of combat support at the time and soon after the war frequently referenced what I personally witnessed—limitations on the effectiveness of Vietnamization because of language hurdles and lack of expertise on the part of the South Vietnamese to support modern combat operations. In an otherwise upbeat report on Vietnamization at the end of 1969, Secretary of Defense Melvin Laird singled out the challenge posed by specialized training as a “serious concern.” “More English language instructors and more trained technicians to man military and civil communications systems are required,” he admitted. He added that there “were simply not enough qualified persons in the Vietnamese manpower pool to fill all the demands for technical skills.”

The bravery of the ARVN soldiers and their ability to shoot straight were necessary but not sufficient for battlefield success, as Gen. Abrams had perceived when first receiving his marching orders from Washington. As a nation-state, the Republic of Vietnam had major structural weaknesses to overcome before it could field a modern military establishment.

Anderson went directly from Vietnam in September 1970 to a classroom at the University of Virginia, where he later received a Ph.D. in history. After 45 years of teaching American foreign policy, he is now professor of history emeritus at California State University, Monterey Bay, and a former senior lecturer of national security affairs at the Naval Postgraduate School. His twelfth book was Vietnamization: Politics, Strategy, Legacy, published in 2019 by Rowman and Littlefield. 

This story appeared in the 2023 Autumn issue of Vietnam magazine.

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John Haseman was a captain assigned as a Deputy District Senior Adviser (DDSA) in Mo Cay District, Kien Hoa Province, in the Mekong Delta. He had arrived at Advisory Team 88 in July 1971 and was DDSA in Ham Long District for 10 months before being reassigned to Mo Cay in May 1972.

Nov. 20, 1972, began as an ordinary day, at least at the start. My boss, the Mo Cay District Senior Adviser (DSA), had departed about a week earlier for much-deserved home leave that included several days of hospital care. He was seriously wounded during a major battle in July 1972 with an NVA regiment in which the Mo Cay District Chief had been killed in action. I was introduced to the new District Chief, Maj. Manh, before my superior departed for the U.S. At that time there were no main force Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) units stationed in the province; except for provincial and district level officers, the soldiers were all locally recruited Regional Force and Popular Force (RF/PF).

My first operational meeting with Maj. Manh had taken place several days earlier. A small convoy that included the newly assigned Province Intelligence (S-2) officer was ambushed just a few kilometers south of Mo Cay town. Manh hurried off with a small security force without telling me.

When told of the incident by Mo Cay’s communications officer, I quickly followed with my interpreter. When I arrived at the ambush scene, Manh’s first words to me were: “I did not tell you because I did not think you would go out to a dangerous area.” Apparently, he had experienced less-than-good relations with advisers during his previous duty in the 7th ARVN Division.

“Sir,” I responded, “I am your adviser while the DSA is away. You know much more about fighting this war than I do, but there are a lot of things I can do to help you. I want to go with you on all operations, dangerous or not. Please don’t leave me behind.”

Taken somewhat aback, he answered that he was glad to know it and would not leave me behind again.

The Explosion

On Nov. 20, I prepared to accompany Manh on my first combat operation with him—a two-company RF sweep through a contested part of western Mo Cay District. The operation line of march was centered on a seldom-used rural road. A company-sized unit would be about 200 meters out on each flank. The troops were well-spaced and well-led. There had been no enemy contact. My interpreter and I were with the command group, which included Manh, his radio operator, his personal bodyguard and security staff, and a platoon of RF soldiers to provide close-in security. I carried the advisory team’s PRC-25 radio—I always carried it on tactical operations. The Vietnamese commander and the advisory team interpreter always offered to carry it instead, but I did not want to wonder where the radio was if we had contact with the enemy.

The road led northwest and then west. The trail was muddy and very rocky and was lined sporadically with young palm trees and open-terrain rice paddies to the north, with the trees of a dense coconut forest parallel to the line of march. Terrain on the south was mixed rice paddies and fruit orchards.

We advanced roughly 3,500 meters when a loud explosion came at the edge of the tree line on the right flank. A report came in that a soldier had hit a booby trap that blew off his foot and inflicted head wounds from shrapnel. Manh stopped forward movement and ordered the casualty to be brought to his location on the road. It was obvious that this soldier was critically wounded.

At this stage of the war, a fairly new official Military Assistance Command, Vietnam (MACV) policy required that all medical evacuations (medevacs) of Vietnamese casualties had to be done by Vietnamese Air Force (VNAF) helicopters only. American helicopters were only supposed to evacuate American casualties. The policy was designed to force the Vietnamese to be more responsive to their ground force casualties. I disagreed with the policy because, in my view, it ignored the fact that the extremely cautious Vietnamese pilots were not nearly as responsive to the ARVN ground troops as U.S. helicopter pilots were.

Manh and I knelt on the road with his radio operator while he called the ARVN side of the joint VN-US Tactical Operations Center (TOC) in the provincial capital of Ben Tre to request a medevac flight. He was told that no VNAF helicopters were available. Visibly upset at the rejection, he turned to me and asked, “Can you help?”

A Life or Death Dilemma

I knew at once that this was a test from Manh. Was his adviser truly willing and able to help him when help was really needed? I was fully aware of the MACV policy on medevac for Vietnamese casualties. Yet, in an important and very favorable coincidence, I also knew that a U.S. Army UH-1 (Huey) helicopter was on the ground at adjacent Huong My District. This helicopter was detailed to transport the MACV Inspector-General (IG) team on inspection missions.

I believed the wounded Vietnamese soldier would die if he did not get prompt medical attention. I refused to remain silent and let this man die for lack of a Vietnamese medevac. I used my radio to call the American side of the TOC. The duty officer, a captain, matter-of-factly disapproved my request, saying, “You know what the policy is on medevacs.” I argued that this was a life-or-death situation for one of “our” soldiers and that it was critical to have a medevac if he were to survive. I reminded him of the IG team helicopter on the ground less than 10 minutes away and strongly urged that we needed the medevac. He repeated his refusal.

Unknown to me at the time, the duty officer had passed the radio to the newly arrived Advisory Team 88 Operations (S-3) adviser—a major who outranked me. I was angry and frustrated. I outright demanded that the nearby helicopter be requested to fly this medevac. In my sense of urgency over the badly wounded soldier lying just a few feet away from me, my open anger was coming very close to insubordination.

Fortunately, the Huong My DSA broke into the contentious radio transmission at that point and told us to calm down while he asked the pilots if they would be willing to fly the medevac. A few minutes later, he called back to report that the crew had agreed to fly the mission for us and were on their way to take off, with my frequency and call sign, and would contact me after take-off.

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The pilot soon radioed me and asked me to confirm our location and asked about the security situation at the landing zone (LZ). Manh’s security platoon quickly organized an LZ on the road where no palm trees could obstruct the landing. I remained on the radio, confirmed to the pilot that the LZ was secure, and described the area. Meanwhile the casualty was prepared for evacuation.

Moments later we all heard the familiar “whup whup whup” sound of the approaching Huey, which came into sight flying over the road. I asked Manh for a soldier to “pop smoke” to show wind direction and the exact spot where we wanted the helicopter to land.

I stepped to the center of the road and raised my rifle with both hands over my head to guide the pilot. Soon the helicopter was on the ground. Soldiers quickly loaded the casualty onboard. Two soldiers—one of them an RF medic—got in to accompany the wounded soldier to the hospital. I stepped onto the helicopter’s left skid and thanked the command pilot for being willing to help with the medevac.

I could not clearly see either the pilot or copilot and did not get their names. I was very grateful that they had come to help when we needed it so badly. I recommended they take off to the north over the rice paddies and definitely not to fly over the distant tree mass until they had gotten high enough to avoid potential enemy ground fire. With that, I stepped back and saluted the crew. The pilot lifted off and the Huey was gone. The entire time from confirmation of the flight to take off with the casualty was only about 15 minutes. Manh quickly got the troops back into formation and the operation continued for the rest of the day. We had no contact with the enemy, and no additional casualties.

Why Deny Treatment to An Ally?

This was an extremely important event for me for many reasons. First and foremost, the medevac was crucial to get the wounded RF soldier to a hospital and hopefully save his life. I was told several weeks later that he had survived but had needed major surgery to amputate his foot and ankle. I was outraged by the unspoken but very real medevac policy corollary: that MACV was willing to deny a medevac to an allied soldier—in this case, a man who would probably have died from severe injuries—just to attempt to make the Vietnamese air force do their job better.

I knew well that, as an adviser, I did not command the RF/PF soldiers fighting alongside me. Nevertheless, I thought of them all as “my” soldiers—my brothers-in-arms. We laughed together, cried together, talked together, fought the common enemy together. I trusted them to be good soldiers and to protect me as best they could. I would do everything I possibly could to keep them alive. Therefore, I was especially grateful to the flight crew who willingly agreed to conduct this medevac. I have the highest regard for, and am very thankful for, all U.S. Army aviators, whose skill and responsiveness helped my counterparts and me countless times during my 18 months as a district adviser. They always came when called, regardless of the tactical situation on the ground and the time of day (or night).

Their courage was limitless and deeply respected by us ground soldiers—Americans and Vietnamese alike.

Second, this had been a definitive test by the Vietnamese district chief to determine his adviser’s responsiveness and reliability when assistance was needed. There was no way I could explain that over the radio to the American TOC personnel. Manh trusted me to be there when he needed help, and I had passed his test. No adviser can succeed without establishing trust. Our relationship for the remaining months of my assignment was close, professional, and worked well for both of us in the challenges we would face.

Third, I knew I was in trouble with my advisory team senior officers in Ben Tre. Full of emotion and adrenaline in the dire circumstances, I had openly challenged U.S. policy on handling medevacs for Vietnamese casualties. Perhaps more significantly, I had been intemperate on the radio and was nearly insubordinate to the Province S-3 adviser. Senior officers do not take kindly to junior officers demanding anything.

Fourth, in retrospect, the incident provided the district chief the opportunity to demonstrate his own sense of responsibility and trust in me—and by important extension, to the other members of the Mo Cay advisory team. Several days later I accompanied Manh to the monthly District Chief/DSA meeting in Ben Tre. I was nervous, anticipating perhaps difficult meetings with the Province Senior Adviser (PSA) and the major I had argued with on the radio. As the meeting convened, the Vietnamese Province Chief asked me to stand up. He thanked me for what I had done on behalf of his soldier and commended the outstanding counterpart relationship in Mo Cay District. Manh had told the Province Chief the details of the event, knowing I was probably in trouble with the senior officers on the advisory team. I knew from then on that I could trust Manh to be an outstanding counterpart. His willingness to intercede on my behalf increased my own trust and confidence in him.

“I Would Do It Again”

The PSA thanked me in public—but in private he told me not to do it again. Later that day I met for the first time the major with whom I had argued on the radio. He took me aside and quietly but firmly told me I needed to work on my communications with senior officers. He was correct. I had been intemperate and disrespectful on the radio. During his first tour of duty in Vietnam he was wounded in action during an airmobile assault into the A Shau Valley, and he had earned the right to criticize me.

“Sir,” I said, “I apologize for being disrespectful on the radio. It was a tense moment for me, and an important test imposed on me by my counterpart.” I also told him the restriction on using American helicopters to evacuate Vietnamese casualties was a lousy policy, and I would do it again if I had to. He was a true gentleman. “John,” he replied, “you’re my kind of officer. You are doing a great job. Just work on your communications.” We had a mutually respectful relationship from then on.

I never forgot that particular medical evacuation among the many I requested for RF/PF casualties during my 18 months as a district adviser in Kien Hoa Province. The event always stood out in my memory.

A little over two months later, in February 1973, my assignment as a district adviser ended when the Paris Agreement mandated the  end of the American advisory effort in Vietnam. I spent the final years of my career in Foreign Area Officer (FAO) assignments in Thailand, Indonesia, and Burma, with short stays in the U.S. for language school courses and assignments at Fort Leavenworth and on the Army staff. On Jan. 31, 1995, I retired to my home in western Colorado and embarked on more than 25 years of writing, lecturing, and traveling as often as I could.

In early March 2023 I was a panelist at the annual conference at the Vietnam Center, Texas Tech University. That year the conference dealt with Vietnam in 1973 and the topic assigned to me was my experiences as a district adviser at the end of the U.S. tactical commitment in the war. Just before our panel was to begin, several other attendees were gathered in front of our table and the conversation turned to the topic of helicopter and tactical air support for advisers in the last months of the war. I expressed my thanks to them “for being there when we needed them.” I began to describe the circumstances of that event I had faced long ago, on Nov. 20, 1972, when obtaining a U.S. medevac for a seriously wounded Vietnamese soldier.

One of the men paid particular attention, his eyes getting bigger and bigger as I went along, and then he burst out saying, “I flew that mission!” And thus, on March 3, 2023, I met Chief Warrant Officer-5 (Retired) John M. Harris, more than 50 years after he flew as copilot on that mission, during which he and I had shared a few minutes on the ground on a muddy, rocky road in Mo Cay District in our efforts to save the life of a soldier.

The Rescue Pilot

John Harris flew that humanitarian tactical medevac mission more than 50 years ago. He had been voluntarily activated the previous August as a novice 20-year-old WO1 Army Aviator from an Army Reserve troop unit, specifically for duty in Vietnam. He was later advised that he was the last USAR soldier mobilized for Vietnam.

Before reporting to Vietnam, I had attended the AH-1G Cobra qualification course. As a new Cobra pilot, it was intended that I would be employed in Vietnam as an attack helicopter pilot, most likely in an air cavalry troop. I was eager to get into the fight and see some action. However, soon after I arrived in Saigon I was told that due to recent losses, the immediate needs of the Army trumped my specific training, rank, and orders. I was instead ordered to perform duties as a Huey pilot. On Nov. 8, 1972, I was assigned to the 18th Aviation Company, 164th Combat Aviation Group, 1st Aviation Brigade, based in Can Tho, the capital of Military Region (MR) IV. Our unit’s mission was to provide aviation support to the remaining U.S. advisers who were located in all 16 MR IV provinces; the 7th, 9th, and 21st ARVN divisions; and the 44th Special Tactical Zone (STZ), located along the Cambodian border.

Each day, we would usually put up a dozen UH-1 Hueys whose mission would often be simply stated as, “Upon arrival, fly as directed by the Province Senior Adviser.” These missions included aerial resupply, visual reconnaissance for both tactical air and B-52 strikes, personnel transport, payroll distribution, offshore naval gunfire support, and much more. We were advised that while the medevac of any ARVN soldiers was to be primarily performed by the VNAF, if a PSA should ask us to medevac an ARVN casualty in a time-critical combat situation, the final decision would be up to the U.S. helicopter crew.

On Nov. 20, 1972, I was eagerly performing the duties of a UH-1H Huey copilot, often referred to in Vietnam as a “Peter pilot” or newbie. Our initial mission was to fly as directed for Kien Hoa Province for the first half of the day, followed by support in the afternoon for the 44th STZ, located near Chi Lang. This was my 10th mission in Vietnam. I was trying to learn as much as possible from the aircraft commander with whom I was paired. He was a very experienced captain with two tours in Vietnam under his belt as a pilot. We commenced our support that day by flying a MACV Inspector General (IG) team to various district headquarters. We were on the ground at Huong My District and relaxed in the advisers’ team house as the inspection team went about their work.

Suddenly we received a call requesting an urgent medevac for a gravely wounded Vietnamese soldier in the adjacent district of Mo Cay. My aircraft commander first asked me, then the crew chief and door gunner, if we were willing to carry out such a mission. Being new and very “gung-ho,” I was frankly surprised that he had even posed such a question. I said we absolutely had to go to the aid of an allied soldier. Both the crew chief and door gunner agreed and off we went.

Approaching the casualty site, we established radio contact with the U.S. adviser, who had his troops pop smoke and identified the LZ as secure. Then we set down following his guidance; he was waving an M16 over his head. During the loading process, I distinctly recall that although the wounded soldier’s leg, which was missing his foot, was covered in bloody bandages, the expression on his face was rather detached from reality. I guessed he had been heavily sedated with multiple doses of morphine to help him cope with extreme pain.

Preparing for Takeoff

As we prepared to take off, the aircraft commander began to direct me to fly to the nearest ARVN aid station. If it had been my first or second mission, I most likely would have simply followed his instructions without comment. But fortunately, while flying a mission a few days earlier for advisers in nearby Vinh Long Province, one of them had pointed out the existence of an ARVN hospital in Ben Tre.

Being rather outgoing, I hastily told the aircraft commander about this hospital and expressed my strong opinion that we should fly there instead of the aid station. I said it would take only a few minutes longer for us to reach it. I then added, “If I get shot down in the future, have my foot amputated and a VNAF helicopter comes to perform my medevac, I certainly hope that he does the right thing and flies me to a fully functioning hospital, versus a simple aid station, which may save my life!”

The aircraft commander acquiesced and allowed me to fly directly to the hospital. We dropped the patient off and I certainly felt good for having asserted myself that day. Once I eventually became an aircraft commander and in charge of my own Huey, I always told the story of this medevac to my new “Peter pilots” and recommended to them that if a similar situation should ever arise, they too should assert themselves and be sure to do the “right thing.”

When reflecting back on my rather abbreviated Vietnam tour, I have always been proudest of asserting myself that day to fly that wounded soldier to a place with a higher level of care. I performed a few more minor medevacs for Vietnamese soldiers during my tour but none of them involved any life-threatening injuries. After the Paris ceasefire took effect, I remained behind for two months and continued to fly as an aircraft commander in unarmed Hueys, conducting peace-keeping missions for the International Commission of Control and Supervision (ICCS), which was composed of military representatives from Canada, Poland, Hungary, and Indonesia. When I finally left Saigon on March 28, 1973, there were only about 500 U.S. troops remaining. They all departed the following day.

An Unlikely Reunion

I remained on continuous flying status as an Army aviator for over four more decades, serving as both a Huey and Cobra instructor pilot/tactical operations officer in multiple assault helicopter companies, attack helicopter companies, air cavalry troops, and other positions. I served for a year in South Korea and deployed for “contingency operations” with U.S. military forces to areas including Somalia, Bosnia, Kosovo, Uzbekistan, Jordan, and Qatar. While in the U.S. Army Reserve, I flew search-and-rescue, medevac, and firefighting helicopters for multiple agencies including the U.S. Forest Service and Kern County Fire Department.

I retired from Kern County in late 2021 after receiving the Federal Aviation Administration’s Wright Brothers Master Pilot Award for safe flight operations for over 50 years. I like to think that after performing that medevac flight in Vietnam, I was forever motivated to perform to the best of my ability in all subsequent urgent missions, both military and civil, to which I was called.

In early 2023, I heard from the Vietnam Helicopter Pilots Association (of which I am a Life Member) that the Vietnam Center & Sam Johnson Vietnam Archive at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas, was hosting a conference focused on the 1973 Paris Peace Accords and the withdrawal from South Vietnam. I was invited to participate on a panel session focusing on the air war in 1973.

On March 3, the day before my panel was scheduled to meet, I happened to notice there was to be a panel on the “Last Phase of U.S. Advisory Efforts” at the end of the war. As I had flown for numerous U.S. advisers during my tour of duty, I was particularly drawn to that topic. I had a feeling that perhaps one of the advisers at the conference might have been aboard my aircraft during one of our support missions. When I read that one of the presenters, Col. John B. Haseman, had been a district adviser in the Mekong Delta at the same time and in the same area I regularly flew in, I became even more optimistic that our paths may have crossed.

I introduced myself and Haseman began to express his gratitude for both the tactical air support and helicopter assistance he had often received. He then told me the story of one particular mission in which he desperately attempted to get a U.S. medevac for a critically wounded Vietnamese soldier on a patrol with him. As he related the details, the hair on the back of my neck literally began to stand up. I thought, “What could be the chances that he was describing the same medevac mission that I had played a role in?”

When he confirmed that the wounded soldier had lost a foot due to a land mine, I knew it was the same mission. During my planning to attend the conference, I never dreamed I would relive a most emotional mission over 50 years later with the same person I had worked together with to “push the envelope” on the rules and to do the right thing when it came to trying to save a wounded soldier’s life.

John Haseman has authored more than 250 articles and book reviews about Southeast Asia political-military affairs, as well as many book chapters on the subject. He is the author or co-author of five books, the most recent of which, In the Mouth of the Dragon: Memoir of a District Advisor in the Mekong Delta, 1971-1973 (McFarland, 2022), describes his experiences as a tactical adviser at the district level in Vietnam’s Mekong Delta.

John Harris retired from the U.S. Army Reserve in October 2013 as a CW5 with over 44 1/2 continuous years of Army service. He was the last U.S. military aviator from any branch of service who had flown combat missions in Vietnam to have retired while still on military flying status.

This story appeared in the 2023 Autumn issue of Vietnam magazine.

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Easter came early in 1972 and the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) came with it. On March 30, “Holy Thursday,” three NVA divisions stormed out of Laos and across the DMZ. It was the first of multiple assaults that struck not only the northern provinces of South Vietnam but also Kontum in the Central Highlands and An Loc, only 60 miles north of Saigon.

North Vietnam was “going for broke,” committing its entire combat capability—14 divisions and 26 separate regiments, all with attached armor and heavy artillery units. Enemy forces numbered 130,000 troops and 1,200 tracked vehicles, primarily tanks. Aging Communist revolutionaries controlling Hanoi’s Politburo believed the time was right to achieve a decisive military victory, topple South Vietnam’s government, and embarrass the United States.

As U.S. military personnel continued to withdraw, American troop strength was brought down to 69,000. Only two U.S. combat brigades remained—their missions were restricted to guarding airbases and patrolling the surrounding areas. Although the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam (MACV) listed 5,300 men as “advisers,” the only Americans fighting on the ground were a handful of men serving with provincial advisory teams and Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) divisions and regiments.

As a result of Vietnamization, battalion advisers were only authorized in the Airborne Division, Marine Division, and selected Ranger units. There were also battalion advisers, mainly NCOs, with the ARVN field artillery battalions.

Americans On The Front Lines

The term “adviser” was a misnomer. By 1972, advice was rarely solicited and when offered, rarely heeded. However, U.S. advisers often cajoled and encouraged their counterparts, particularly in dire situations when spirits were flagging. The presence of even a lone American adviser was a morale booster, as every ARVN soldier knew they would not be abandoned as long as one American was with them.

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The advisers’ primary role was employing the massive air assets President Richard M. Nixon had sent to South Vietnam. U.S. air power proved decisive in blunting the 1972 enemy offensive. Advisers routinely exposed themselves to NVA fire while working with USAF forward air controllers, identifying lucrative targets and adjusting air strikes to ensure bombs were “on target.”

Americans who remained on the front lines, especially advisers with airborne and Marine battalions, suffered significant casualties. Adm. Chester Nimitz’s famous quote after World War II’s Battle of Iwo Jima in 1945 was equally applicable to the advisers who helped turn back the NVA offensive 27 years later: “Uncommon valor was a common virtue.”

Early in 1972, allied intelligence personnel were watching NVA build-ups in Laos and Cambodia but had no idea of the timing of a possible offensive. When it occurred, the ARVN Joint General Staff (JGS) and MACV were surprised by its scale and ferocity. With fighting raging in three areas, military officials were unable to determine the communist main attack. The focus of III Corps, the ARVN headquarters responsible for provinces surrounding Saigon, was on enemy attacks in Tay Ninh. These were diversionary operations, masking the movement of three NVA units: 5th VC Division, 9th VC Division, and 7th NVA Division. The 5th and 9th were VC in name only; they were manned and equipped by the North Vietnamese Army.

The situation grew more tenuous on April 5, 1972, when those divisions—36,000 troops organized into combined arms teams of infantry, armor, heavy artillery, and engineers—poured across the Cambodian border into Binh Long Province. The immediate threat to the government in Saigon was clear.

Maj. Gen. James F. Hollingsworth, commander of the Third Regional Assistance Command (TRAC), urged Gen. Nguyen Van Minh, III Corps commander, to reinforce An Loc, the provincial capital. Hollingsworth, a 1940 graduate of Texas A&M University, was one of Gen. George S. Patton’s outstanding tank commanders during World War II. He led from the front and during his service in three wars he was awarded three Distinguished Service Crosses (DSC), the nation’s second highest award for valor, four Silver Stars and six Purple Hearts, plus four Distinguished Service Medals and 38 Air Medals.

Known as “Holly,” he was also a Korean War veteran and had served a previous Vietnam tour as assistant division commander of the famed 1st Infantry Division. Advisers revered him and were grateful for the air support he was able to muster.  

A City Under Siege

The district town of Loc Ninh, a few miles from the Cambodian border, fell on April 7 when the NVA overran it, killing or capturing nearly 1,000 soldiers. Two U.S. advisers were killed and seven were listed as missing in action. Only 100 ARVN defenders and one American, Maj. Tom Davidson, managed to escape the battle and make their way to An Loc, which was 15 miles south and obviously the enemy’s next target. The 5th ARVN Division defended An Loc with three infantry regiments, two ranger battalions, and provincial forces.

If An Loc was lost, there were no ARVN troops to stop an enemy move on Saigon. President Nguyen Van Thieu issued a directive that An Loc must be held at all costs. The well-publicized order caught the attention of the communists, challenging them to quickly capture it. The pivotal battle for An Loc and the heroism of U.S. advisers there was a microcosm of the fighting throughout South Vietnam in what the U.S. press now called the Easter Offensive.

On April 7, 1972, President Thieu convened a meeting of his key advisers and corps commanders to assess the military situation; it was a grim session. General Minh outlined his circumstances and requested more troops to reinforce An Loc, surrounded by the 5th and 9th VC Divisions. He also pointed out the 7th NVA Division had cut the main supply route, QL (National Route) 13, into the provincial capital, isolating the defenders.

Because of the enemy’s proximity to Saigon, the president made the unprecedented decision to commit the country’s last reserve, the 1st Airborne Brigade, to III Corps. He also directed the 21st ARVN Division move from the relatively quiet Mekong Delta region and join the battle in Binh Long Province.

By the afternoon of April 8, the 1st Airborne Brigade, augmented by the 81st Airborne Ranger Battalion, was assembled south of An Loc, ready to fight. The 81st was originally activated as a reaction force during the days of cross-border operations into Cambodia, Laos, and North Vietnam. Now, it was employed as an elite infantry battalion. It was teamed with the Airborne Division because its advisers were part of the Airborne Division Assistance Team, also designated MACV Team 162. The brigade’s 2,000-plus paratroopers were tasked to open QL 13 into An Loc. Soldiers of the 7th NVA Division, 8,600 strong, had prepared extensive defensive fortifications along the vital supply route. The NVA easily stopped the 1st Brigade.

A One-Man Operation

With a stalemate occurring, Hollingsworth recommended a mission change: reinforce An Loc with the 1st Airborne Brigade and have the 21st ARVN Division clear QL 13. The paratroopers were needed because on April 13 the NVA kicked off an armor and infantry attack that threatened the town.

Late in the afternoon of April 14, the 6th Airborne Battalion, about 400 paratroopers, conducted a helicopter assault into an LZ near key terrain just south of An Loc. Two American advisers, Maj. Richard J. Morgan and 1st Lt. Ross S. Kelly, accompanied the battalion commander, Lt. Col. Nguyen Van Dinh, in the first lift. The high ground, Hill 169 and an adjacent feature called Windy Hill, was needed for an artillery firebase. It would provide support for the 5th ARVN Division because all its guns had been destroyed by incoming fire.

Initially, the landing was unopposed. Yet the NVA reacted quickly and stopped the paratroopers from gaining the summits of the two hills. The advisers called in air strikes. Kelly, accompanying attacking troops, directed U.S. Army AH-1G Cobra rocket and machine gun fire to within 25 meters of his position, forcing the enemy to withdraw. It was a “danger close” call, but a necessary one.

As the high ground was taken, Morgan, the senior adviser with the battalion commander, suffered a severe leg wound.  He needed immediate evacuation or would bleed to death. Fortunately, a U.S. Army Huey helicopter responded to Kelly’s request for a medevac. The pilots braved enemy mortar and artillery fire to rescue Morgan and five ARVN paratroopers who were also seriously wounded.

Kelly, a 1970 graduate of West Point with less than two years in the Army, was now the lone American responsible for the battalion’s desperately needed air support. The old Army expression “operating way above his pay grade” described Kelly’s circumstances.

The remaining battalions, the 5th, 8th, and 81st, plus the brigade headquarters, arrived on April 15-16. CH-47 Chinook helicopters brought in six 105mm howitzers and emplaced them on the high ground, secured by two rifle companies of the 6th Airborne Battalion. Maj. John Peyton, Morgan’s replacement, was in the airlift and joined Kelly on the afternoon of April 16. Peyton was only on the ground two days before he too was badly wounded and evacuated. Again, Kelly was a one-man operation.

The North Vietnamese commander was not about to allow an ARVN firebase to operate in his area of responsibility. Within 24 hours, NVA artillery fire destroyed all six howitzers and its stockpile of ammunition. The battalions airlifted in on the 15th and 16th were ordered to move into the town and join the 5th ARVN Division defenders who were fending off major NVA attacks. The 6th Airborne Battalion was left on its own. Two NVA regiments with eight tanks began to systematically isolate and destroy the 6th.

Kelly used every air sortie at his disposal to keep the numerically superior foe at bay. The communist commander was determined to annihilate them, regardless of the cost. By April 20, the 6th Battalion had fewer than 150 effective fighters. Seriously injured soldiers died for the lack of medical treatment. U.S. helicopters only flew medevac missions for wounded U.S. advisers—so the evacuation burden fell on the Vietnamese Air Force (VNAF) helicopter pilots, most of whom were sadly lacking fortitude.

Waiting For the NVA

Supply shortages and the VNAF’s reluctance to fly caused morale to plummet. Having grown used to the robust support from the U.S. Army, the failure of the ARVN and VNAF to perform critically needed tasks was a shock to the paratroopers, including the battalion commander. Lt. Col. Dinh was psychologically overwhelmed and stayed in his foxhole, almost in a trance. Remnants of two rifle companies on the hills, less than 50 men, were forced off and escaped to An Loc. Eighty other paratroopers, who were not on the high ground, formed a tight perimeter and waited for the NVA.

Kelly began to work what little magic he had left. He coordinated with the brigade senior adviser, Lt. Col. Art Taylor, and his deputy, Maj. Jack Todd, for assistance to allow them to break out to the south, away from An Loc. Todd called Kelly at 7:30 p.m. and said three B-52 strikes were scheduled just after dark to hit the concentrations of North Vietnamese threatening the 6th Battalion. U.S. intelligence had a good “fix” on enemy locations. The bombers would drop “danger close,” meaning less than 1,000 meters from the friendlies, the minimum safe distance from B-52 bombs.

Kelly’s cajoling and the news of the upcoming bombing strikes snapped Dinh out of his depressed state. He made the difficult decision to leave the seriously wounded soldiers behind and prepared the men to move. When the first 500-pound bombs began to fall, 80 exhausted men headed to the southeast, away from the enemy. Kelly led while Dinh, farther back in the column, kept the troops moving. The shock of three successive B-52 strikes and rapidity of movement gave the bedraggled force some breathing space.

Throughout the night and into the next day, Kelly continued to serve as “point man” for the small group. On more than one occasion, he called in air strikes on pursuing enemy troops. When Kelly found a suitable pickup zone, the adviser used U.S. air strikes to seal off the area and protect the incoming helicopters.

Finally, VNAF helicopters arrived but they only touched down briefly and several hovered a few feet off the ground, making it impossible for the walking wounded to get aboard. They were not taking any enemy fire. Without warning, they “pulled pitch”—taking off with Kelly hanging on to one UH-1’s struts and leaving 40 soldiers on the ground.

Threats from the battalion commander failed to intimidate the pilots, who refused to land again. Fortunately, the corps commander and Hollingsworth forced the VNAF to return the next day, but they only retrieved half of the 40 men left behind. Those 60 rescued paratroopers became the 6th Airborne Battalion’s nucleus as reconstitution began immediately.

On Oct. 17, 1972, Kelly was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his bravery. Without his personal example, forceful urgings, and timely orchestration of airstrikes, no one would have survived. His actions belied his rank and experience and his professionalism saved the day.

Trial By Fire

During the 6th Battalion’s ordeal, the 81st Airborne Ranger Battalion was undergoing its trial by fire. It was lifted in on April 16, arriving with 450 soldiers and three U.S. advisers: Capt. Charles Huggins, senior adviser; Capt. Albert Brownfield, Huggins’ deputy; and Sgt. First Class Jesse Yearta, light weapons adviser. The unit was detached from the airborne brigade and directed to fight its way into An Loc and occupy positions in the northeastern sector of the town’s perimeter. The NVA had attacked several days earlier and gained a significant lodgment, almost to the center of the town. The communists had nearly reached the east-west thoroughfare that bisected An Loc, leading one American defender to report: “The bastards are almost to Sunset Boulevard.”

As the 81st moved off the LZ, Yearta was hit by artillery shrapnel but refused evacuation. An ARVN medic patched him up. Yearta, a hardcore soldier, continued the mission. At 36, he had come of age in the Cold War army and spent most of his career in airborne units. He was known as a “hard ass,” but the troops held him in high esteem because he was a fighter and genuinely concerned for their welfare. The Airborne Rangers of the 81st had an unbounded affection for Yearta.

On the night of April 22, the battalion was directed to launch a counterattack to eliminate enemy positions. Huggins was provided a Spectre gunship, a USAF AC-130 aircraft equipped with a 105mm cannon and twin 40mm Bofors guns, to assist the attackers. The Spectre had cutting edge technology sensors that allowed it to fire very near friendly forces, almost within the 50- meter bursting radius of the 105mm shells. A rolling barrage was planned with the troops following closely behind it.

Yearta volunteered to accompany the lead company so he could direct the Spectre’s fire. Not taking a chance that he might become separated from his radio operator, he carried his own AN-PRC 77 radio so he could maintain constant contact with the airplane. To ensure the Spectre gun crew could track the leading friendlies amid battlefield obscuration, Yearta continually fired small pen flares that the aircraft’s sensors easily identified. He adjusted both the 105mm cannon and the Bofor guns by constantly sending corrections, positioning himself almost within the blast area. The fire was so devastating the NVA was pushed back and original defensive positions were restored.

Later, Yearta was asked about the Spectre’s support that night. He replied in typical fashion, “Damn! They are good ol’ boys.” Yearta became a legend among the advisers for the pen flare episode and was later awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his valor.

The siege of An Loc lasted 66 days and resulted in the destruction of three NVA divisions. It was ironic that the reconstituted 6th Airborne Battalion, still commanded by Lt. Col. Nguyen Van Dinh, broke the enemy’s grip on the town. On June 8, 1972, the 6th Airborne linked with the town’s defenders after fighting its way from the south. In mid-June, President Thieu declared the siege lifted and the 1st Airborne Brigade was sent to the northernmost province of Quang Tri to participate in a counteroffensive.

“The Battle That Saved Saigon”

The 1st Airborne Brigade and the 81st Airborne Ranger Battalion paid a heavy price for their part in what some journalists called the “battle that saved Saigon.” From April 7 thru June 21, the 1st Airborne suffered 346 killed in action (KIA), 1,093 wounded, and 66 missing; the 81st lost 61 KIA and 299 wounded.

The An Loc campaign took its toll on MACV Team 162. Nineteen airborne advisers began the operation in April 1972. Of that number, 10 were wounded and one, Sgt. First Class Alberto Ortiz Jr., died from his wounds. He was the first of five airborne advisers killed during the Easter Offensive. One officer, Capt. Ed Donaldson, was wounded on April 7, evacuated, returned to duty in An Loc, and was wounded again, for which he required extended hospitalization.

Five battalion advisers with the 1st Airborne Brigade and the 81st Airborne Ranger Battalion were awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for their actions in An Loc. In addition to Kelly and Yearta, DSCs were awarded to: Capt. Michael E. McDermott, 5th Airborne Battalion; Capt. Charles R. Huggins, 81st Airborne Rangers; and 1st Lt. Winston A.L. Cover, 8th Airborne Battalion. For McDermott, it was his second DSC, the first being presented in 1967 when he was a lieutenant in the 101st Airborne Division. With two DSCs, a Silver Star, and a Purple Heart, McDermott became one of the most decorated soldiers of the Vietnam conflict.

An Loc was destroyed in the Easter Offensive. Only rubble and burned-out communist tanks remained. The town was rebuilt and today commerce flourishes. One would not know that a climactic struggle occurred there five decades ago; there is no evidence of the battle. Several cemeteries are located just south of An Loc where the remains of NVA soldiers are interred. At each cemetery, there is a large statue and plaque dedicated to the heroism and sacrifice of the communist “freedom fighters.”

After South Vietnam surrendered in April 1975, NVA soldiers desecrated the 81st Airborne Ranger cemetery in An Loc that the town’s citizens had meticulously tended to when the 1972 battle ended. Like other ARVN cemeteries, there is no trace of it today.

During the 1972 Easter Offensive, John Howard served as senior adviser with the reconstituted 6th Airborne Battalion and 11th Airborne Battalion. On a 2011 trip to Vietnam, he returned to Tan Khai and An Loc. For further reading he recommends James H. Willbanks’ book, The Battle of An Loc and Dale Andradé’s book America’s Last Vietnam Battle.

This story appeared in the 2023 Autumn issue of Vietnam magazine.

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