LZ Sherry

 I went to Sherry as the battery XO (executive officer, second in command after the battery commander). There was a first lieutenant there already running Fire Direction Control who should have moved up to the XO job, but he said he wanted to stay where he was. I knew him from my visits to the base and knew we would work well together. At a firebase the battery commander was the guy over everything, while the XO had the running of the firing battery – the howitzers, the perimeter machine guns and Dusters (twin 40 mm cannons) and even the radar units. Bravo battery was one of the best defended bases in the battalion.

I pulled duty from six in the morning until midnight. I would visit each howitzer, guard tower and outpost. In this way I got to know the men and they got to know me.

Where Were You Shot?

The battery commander was off somewhere leaving me as acting BC. We got a “red flag” message concerning an inquiry from a congressman about the warrant officer (officer in a technical specialty) who was running our radar section. The red flag designation meant it was urgent, could be answered over the radio in the clear, and had to be answered within 24 hours. Right away I got on the radio to the duty officer at battalion headquarters. It seemed our warrant officer had told his wife he had been wounded. She contacted her congressman and wanted to know why the Army did not notify her that her husband was wounded and she had to find out in a letter from him.

I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He said, “You mean one of your guys got wounded and you don’t know about it?”

“Nobody got wounded!”

“Well I need an answer on my colonel’s desk in the morning.”

I walked over to the warrant officer’s hooch and the guy’s laying on his bunk reading a book. He was young, in his early twenties. I sat down on the cot next to him and said, “We have a big problem, chief.”

He said, “What’s that?”

“I just got notification from battalion about some big shot congressman looking into what you told your wife about being shot. And she is really pissed the Army never told her.”

He turned pale and said, “Aw shit.” Then he told me everything, that he told his wife the firebase was hit and he was wounded in the leg.

“Don’t you know the first thing your wife will want to see is your wound?” I pulled out my .45 pistol, chambered a round and said, “Where did you say you were shot?”

He went even paler. I told him he had a choice. If he wanted to go home without a wound he would write his wife admitting he had lied to her. He was to bring the letter with an envelope to me. I would send it to headquarters for copying and mailing on to his wife. A copy would go to the congressman and one into his file.

This was not my first exposure to guys inventing a war record. Right after I agreed to become the motor officer back in Phan Rang, the deal that would get me to B Battery, I was taking a little siesta after lunch. A new warrant officer had a room right next to mine. The walls were flimsy half inch plywood, so you could hear everything next door. I hear this guy come stomping in. He gets on his tape recorder and starts making a tape for his wife back home. He’s telling her, We got hit last night and our compound was overrun. I ran out and got into a bunker to return fire. I’m sure I hit a few, I don’t know how many, but don’t worry, I’m Okay. Finally I’ve heard enough. I get out of my bunk, stomp around and slam the door. I want him to know I heard everything. That evening I was in the officers club having a drink. I saw him come in, and when our eyes met he made an about face and left.

There were two types of soldiers in Vietnam. The ones who inflated their combat experiences for folks back home, or simply invented them. And the ones who asked that family not be told of their injuries; these were the real heroes.

Location, Location, Location

In the field in Vietnam a key survival skill was letting folks know where you were at all times, especially nearby artillery batteries, and especially at night.

I got an early lesson in how dangerous mix-ups can be. A heavy artillery battery to our north at LZ Sandy had closed, and the Tactical Operations Center (TOC) had given us a free fire zone for that area, which meant we could fire at will. Every night we plotted the location of friendlies on our maps and had no reports of anyone there. That night our radar picked up activity right at that location. Figuring it was Viet Cong we called up two howitzers and unloaded five rounds apiece on top of it, at which all movement stopped.

The next morning we got a visit from a TOC investigating officer with clipboard in hand. It seems a ROK unit (Republic of Korea) had sent a few people to the old firebase to see what they could scrounge. They were most probably looking for PSP, metal runway material used to build hoochs. They had failed to tell the folks at the TOC what they were doing and as a result walked right into our free fire zone. Fortunately I don’t think we killed anyone. I liked the ROKs; they were tough soldiers generally feared by both the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army. But sometimes they were a little too independent for their own good.

Duck

A second important survival skill was knowing when to duck.

When I was the night duty officer I would sometimes fire “killer junior” rounds out over the wire. These were high explosive rounds with a time fuse set at .5 seconds that would explode in the air just outside the wire. I called FDC to tell everyone it was coming and to take cover. I no sooner fired the round in the direction of the Duster than I hear CHECK FIRE, CHECK FIRE and MEDIC, MEDIC. I rushed over and saw Doc with a guy holding his gut and there’s blood all over the place. I thought, Shit man, I done hit one of our own.

Doc walked the guy to the medic station and pretty soon had the bleeding stopped and him cleaned up. The wound turned out to be just a surface scratch that bled a lot. And it was a wound he had coming. He was an E-5 sergeant sitting at the outpost next to the Duster drinking a beer with his gut hanging out of his flak jacket when word came down from FDC about the killer junior round. The guard on duty at the Duster told him to get down and he came back with something like, Go screw yourself. Shortly after that the round went off.

The next morning I was sitting in the mess hall with the first sergeant and this guy comes in with his stomach all bandaged up like a mummy. He said, “Who initiates the paperwork for my Purple Heart? Do I do that, or do you guys?”

I dropped my fork, turned to the first sergeant and said, “Get this guy out of here before I get ahold of him.”