We survived primarily on C-Rations. Some of the “entrées” weren’t too bad, particularly if you had a way to heat them.  Occasionally, I would punch a hole in the can, then place it near the exhaust on the generator. I thought the canned Spaghetti was decent, particularly if hot. On the other hand, the Ham & Lima beans were absolutely horrible. The ingredients had been in the can together for so long the only way you could tell them apart was by their shape.  And the Lima Beans were incredibly stringy. You could chew on that crap for 5 minutes and accomplish nothing. Lowest bidder, I’m sure. I usually fed it to the nearest dog.

Each C-Ration meal also came with 4 cigarettes, a tin of crackers or pound cake, canned fruit and a few sheets of toilet paper.  I’m being generous when I say toilet paper.  It was more like newspaper, but without the news.

When we were fortunate enough to be based at or near an American FSB, we could usually mingle in the chow line with the gun crews and infantry. The field cooks actually turned out some pretty decent chow, considering the harsh conditions. Even BBQ beef on occasion. I always made it a point to bring a couple of cartons of milk back with me. In the evening, I fired up a small hot-plate (stealing a few watts from our radar generator) to heat the milk in my canteen cup. When hot, I added powdered chocolate from our C-Rations and enjoyed a nice little treat. Small comforts helped saved my sanity, I think.

There was one time when being close to hot chow almost turned out to be a bad thing. We spent 2 weeks at the base camp in Tay Ninh and had crowded into a bunker with an existing Q-4 counter-mortar radar team while we constructed our own bunker. The chow tent was about a block away and man, were we enjoying that. One morning, two of my teammates gave me a nudge as they headed out to breakfast. “Come on Staff, chow!” and off they went. I pulled on my boots, grabbed my boonie hat and started for the bunker door. Just as I was reaching for the screen door a rocket hit the dirt road right out front. Wham! The blast knocked me backwards. There was no warning. It just hit. I got up, ears ringing, then I started thinking about my buddies who just headed out. I ran out the door and looked down the road. Both were on the ground, but seemed to be OK. They hollered to me to find out if I was OK. Yeah, no red stuff leaking out.

Later, we examined the impact area. To my very good fortune, some unknown person had parked a trailer-mounted generator on the edge of the road, nose (hitch) down in the dirt. The wheel was not extended. The rocket hit right on the other side. The trailer and generator engine block stopped most of the shrapnel coming my way. Still, we did find quite a few holes in the bunker sandbags near the door and in the low blast wall in front of the door. I was completely exposed from about the navel up. I really lucked out. I was only going to breakfast.

As I have mentioned elsewhere on this website, we spent 3+ months at an ARVN Infantry camp near Loc Giang. There was an American Advisory team there also who trained and led the ARVN’s.  The odd/interesting thing about this ARVN camp was that some of the soldiers had their families with them.  From my experiences, it was rare to see civilians and families camped out at a combat base.  And this did lead to some problems.

The ARVN were pretty poor, even when compared to us. This resulted in much theft of our supplies including C-Rations, gasoline and even personal items. Despite that, I did share some of our C-Rations with the children. Obviously, they were very hungry.

One day I gave into temptation and bought what resembled a submarine sandwich from a Vietnamese civilian just outside the gate of our camp near Go Dau Ha. I also bought a bottle of Coca-Cola, labeled in French. That little mistake cost me 2 weeks of the trots.  I later learned that the meat in the sandwich was not pork or chicken. Or Water Buffalo. That didn’t leave too many options…

We experienced a wide variety of living conditions during my 12 month tour. Our best was a 2-week stay in an actual house with an American Advisory Team at an ARVN basic combat training camp. The worst was no shelter at all. We slept under the stars.

In most cases, we managed to squeeze into an existing bunker when assigned to FSB’s (Fire Support Base). Typically, these bunkers were partially under ground with low sandbag walls above ground level and PSP (Perforated Steel Plank) and beam supported sand bag roofs. I recall sleeping in a very cramped bunker at FSB Buell, near the base of Nui Ba Den mountain. The bunks and floor were constructed from wooden Howitzer ammo boxes. The bunks were 3-high and basically just wood slats with no mattress.  I pulled the top bunk many times. When I rolled over, my shoulders rubbed against the PSP roof. It was that tight. This was no place for anyone with claustrophobia.

Ventilation in these bunkers was extremely poor, as in, virtually non-existent. Consequently, it got very hot and stuffy. And there were many smells: mildew; mosquito repellent; body odor; rotting wood; wet dirt, plus burned gun powder during action times. Also, there were usually other occupants including rats and cockroaches. And man, was it dark. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. But looking down in a corner, I could see the faint glow of a coiled, burning mosquito repellent. I slept on the boards and in the stench because I was exhausted.

In addition to the often poor sleeping conditions, we rarely got a full night’s sleep.  At the very least, we got up once or twice during the night to pull our shift on the radar.  Things went downhill from there when our camp was being attacked.  Quality sleep was a precious commodity when we could get it.

For some reason I like the green crackle paint job on the Chinese-made clock sitting just to my left. I don’t, however, care much for what the hands are pointing to; 4:30 in the morning. I’m pulling my second and last shift on the radar, a ground surveillance doppler unit that allows us to detect enemy infiltration along the Cambodian border.

The small van that contains the operator’s end of the radar system is cramped and hot in spite of the 2 ventilation fans that are whirring away overhead. In the background I can hear chatter on the radio net, most of it official, some not. I check the target log on my left and see that a half dozen targets were detected tonight and four were fired on. I make a mental note to scan those particular areas again during my shift.

Sweat trickles down my brow and I begin to stick to the metal folding chair. I feel very tired. I haven’t had an uninterrupted night’s sleep in 11 months. Eleven months of being awakened twice nearly every night for radar duty, more if our camp is attacked. Sleep during the day is almost impossible due to the sweltering heat, even if I have time for it. But, I have work to do. The generator that supplies power to the radar has accumulated a lot of hours and it demands daily maintenance. It’s near the end of it’s tour, just like me.

Uh, oh… I hear something outside. I reach for the fan switches and shut them off. I wait, and listen… gunfire, but it’s in the distance… the FSB about half mile down the road. Our ARVN camp is probably OK for the moment. It’s getting unbearably hot in the van now, but I decide to leave the fans off so I can hear what’s going on outside. This is when I really feel uncomfortable being on-duty in the van; I can’t tell what’s going on around our perimeter.

I focus on the scope and tune my ears to the speaker attached to the radar system. Doppler makes the TPS-25 radar rather unusual. It generates incredible audio sounds from moving targets. Listening to a column of enemy troops walking down a trail is surreal, almost unbelievable. Their arms and legs make distinct “whooshing” noises, a sound that I’ll never forget.

Bingo… the unmistakable “grass” is moving on the left side of the scope. I move the range gate to the flicker and listen carefully. Movement! I mark the spot that the bug-light has illuminated on the map located just above the scope and then record the coordinates in the logbook. I re-position the range gate and listen again as the column passes through the gate. I estimate 20 people moving in northeasterly direction. After recording this information in the log I key the mic and report the target information to TOC (tactical operations center) back at our base camp.

About 5 minutes pass before TOC declares the target hostile and designates a fire base to fire on it. A few more minutes pass before I hear the anticipated word, “shot!” I acknowledge and wait for the howitzer rounds to impact. The seconds tick by, …there, I see it, the tell-tale puffy flickers on the baseline of the scope. The rounds have fallen 50 meters short of the target. I report the impact information to TOC and in turn FDC makes the adjustments. A couple of minutes later new rounds arrive, this time right on the mark. All movement in the area has ceased. I report rounds on target, fire for effect. I intensely watch the scope, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction as the 105mm Howitzer volleys hit the target.

 

While we were based among the ARVN infantry near Loc Giang, I befriended a little pooch. He was a Heinz-57 variety and a cute, friendly little guy. He walked with a gimp of sorts. It appeared that something was amiss with his back, resulting in short, painful steps with his hind quarters. But, he could still wag his tail.

He would visit me every day, so I started feeding him little bits of our C-Rations. In fact, I often gave him a whole can of Ham & Lima Beans. Any soldier who has survived on C-Rations well knows that the Ham & Lima Beans (Ham and Mother F***ers in Army jargon) were horrible. No one wanted them, and for good reason.

The little dog scarfed up the Ham & Lima Beans enthusiastically. After a few weeks it became apparent that his back problem was improving, plus he was actually gaining a little weight. I grew pretty fond of the little guy.

One day I heard a yelp. I looked around for the dog. There was a gathering of ARVN troops about 50 feet away, so I walked over to see what the fuss was about. They had killed the dog and were already busy dressing him down for their dinner. I was so disgusted that I actually considered pointing my M-16 at them. After I calmed down for a few minutes, I well knew that plan would go no where good.

I went back to our tent and sat down on the edge my cot. I couldn’t believe how upset I was. I seemed to have no control over the tears welling up in my eyes. I hoped my buddies didn’t notice. Perhaps the little pooch was simply a representation of a lot more – feelings I could ill afford to visit for the past 11 months. I found myself deeply resenting the very people I was fighting for. In the end, I had to force myself to let it go.

—

At the same camp, the Advisory Team 1st Lt. had two mascot dogs. Both of them proved to be very useful guard dogs.  I lost count of the times one of them would cold-nose us awake when they heard something suspicious.  They were naturals and an added comfort during times of sleep. I think the dogs were better guards than the ARVN infantry posted around the perimeter of our little camp.

—

The ARVN’s gave me two orange kittens one day.  I love cats, so I could not turn them down. I seem to recall the ARVN interpreter telling me that the Vietnamese consider orange cats bad luck.  So, I gave the gorgeous little kittens milk that I brought back from nearby FSB Jackson, plus little bits from various C-Ration meals. I received orders for home a couple of weeks later and had to leave those cute little kittens behind. I have been forever sad contemplating their eventual fate.

I took this shot while attending the Bob Hope Christmas show at Cu Chi, 1969. The Cu Chi base camp was quite large and there were probably several thousand GI’s present for the show, most from the field. The stage in the picture was about 50 yards from our headquarters battery, so we got good parking. The traffic was terrible but I think everyone arrived and departed safely. We were incredibly fortunate to be able to drive in from the field for the show. And we even made it back to our field camp before dark without incident.

Bob’s guests included Miss World, Eva Rueber-Staier; Connie Stevens; Neil Armstrong (fresh back from the moon). Connie entertained us with the song, “Wedding Bell Blues” including calling to the crowd for anyone named Bill to join her on the stage. A fellow close to the stage clambered up front in an instant. When Connie finished the song, the soldier told the crowd that his name was not Bill, drawing a mixture of applause and booing. I thought it was pretty funny. I mean, show me a soldier who wouldn’t lie about their name (or most anything else) to get a hug from Connie Stephens! (December, 1969)

Since we were rather nomadic and not attached to any of the field units we served with, we had to do our own resupply. Every one to two weeks, two of our 5-man team would drive back to our closest base camp (Cu Chi or Tay Ninh) in either our clapped out 3/4 ton truck or our deuce and a half truck. Typically, we refilled two 55-gallon gas barrels; picked up C-Rations and ammo; refueled the truck; dropped off mail; picked up mail; got a haircut; picked up pay if a pay day had occurred since last visit; got a money order and sent most of our pay home; visited the PX; perhaps picked up a block of ice, etc.

We often had to drive 20 kilometers or more, most of which was on dirt roads. Theoretically, the dirt roads we traveled were checked for land mines early in the morning. We usually traveled alone unless we lucked out and came across a convoy going in the same direction. The trip could be a bit nerve-racking at times. The indigenous personnel could tie up the roads with overloaded Honda motorbikes; slow moving carts; worn out buses; people on foot; water buffalo on a leash. Over time, we managed to run over at least one pig and one chicken. I can assure you that they didn’t go to waste. The Vietnamese were on the carcass within moments.

On one my trips near the end of my tour, I was driving our 3/4 ton truck back to the ARVN Infantry camp near Loc Giang when the engine flooded. So there we were, sitting on a lonely dirt road, late in the afternoon. My buddy and I grabbed our M-16’s hooked on the wingnuts on the windshield while scanning our surroundings. While my buddy stood guard, I lifted the hood and rapped on the carburetor with a crescent wrench in hopes of dislodging the stuck float. No joy.

Suddenly, we could hear a truck in the distance, coming from the opposite direction. He was hauling ass, to say the least. As he approached, we waved him down. He was an engineer in a 5-ton dump truck. He seemed hesitant at first, but agreed to give us a push. I guess he hesitated because not only was it getting late and he too was alone, he had to turn the big truck around on a narrow road. He did it and the push worked. The engine sputtered and popped back into life and off we went. I watched the big truck in the mirror as we sped away, jockeying back and forth. I wish I had that soldiers name. He may have saved our bacon. And I hope he made it safely back to his base.

This was not the first time we had carburetor trouble with that truck. Every time we took it to the motor pool maintenance back at the base camp, the damned thing ran fine. Well let me tell you, the next time we took it in, we made absolutely sure that it got a new carburetor. The mechanic looked a bit pale after we told him our story. No more arguments.

Another memorable resupply trip, I spotted something I really didn’t want see.  As we approached the outskirts of Trang Bang on the way to the Cu Chi base camp, there were a pile of enemy bodies stacked up like cord-wood near a fence. In addition, one of the corpses was tied to a fence post in a sitting position. The ARVN’s had cut off his genitals and stuffed them in his mouth. I never did understand this type behavior. Obviously, the feelings of hatred ran deep.

Then there was the day we narrowly avoided running over a mama-san who fell off the rear rack of a Honda motorbike. The driver didn’t notice, so after swerving to avoid his lady, we sped up and flagged him down. I’ll bet he ended up in deep nuoc mam over that one.

This C-141 is very similiar to the one that transported my radar team and equipment to Vietnam. We were allowed to visit the flight deck during the flight. There were as many as 10 people at a time up there. During the flight, I made it a point to sit in all 3 of our trucks, just so I could say, “I flew a truck!”

Helpful Hints
Glossary

105mm Howitzer installation.  A typical gun battery consisted of 6 Howitzers. (photo courtesy of former teammate, D. Diebold)

1. Aquaris/Let the Sunshine In    —The Fifth Dimension
2. Sugar, Sugar    —The Archies
3. Honky Tonk Women    —The Rolling Stones
4. Get Back    —The Beatles
5. Crimson and Clover    —Tommy James and the Shondells
6. Dizzy    —Tommy Roe
7. Jean    —Oliver
8. Build Me Up, Buttercup    —The Foundations
9. Touch Me    —The Doors
10. Hair    —The Cowsills

… and the Number 1 hit of the entire Vietnam war:

We Gotta Get Out of This Place     —The Animals