I was not aware, however, that competition and rivalry between ships are every bit as intense as that between Army divisions until I visited the U.S.S. Coral Sea, which was launching strikes against North Vietnam from Yankee Station in the Tonkin Gulf.
Launch and recovery operations are monitored throughout the ship on closed-circuit television, and I was in one of the pilots' ready rooms watching when an F4 Phantom missed the approach and went around again. It missed the next four as well, twice nearly hitting the water.
On the sixth try, the plane's tail hook caught the arresting cable and the fighter roared to a stop.
The Coral Sea's TV cameraman zoomed in on the plane's fuselage until the whole screen was filled with the words "U.S.S. Constellation."
* * *
THERE are many situations in Vietnam in which combat troops are not allowed to shoot at the enemy, even when fired upon, without permission from higher authority. This is often frustrating, particularly when coupled with a multitude of communication problems, not the least of which is the sometimes total inability to contact the superior whose authority is necessary in order to return the fire.
We were told of an infantry platoon of the 1st Cavalry Division which was being harassed by snipers and sporadic mortar fire near An Khe. After a little reconnoitering, the enemy positions were pinpointed and permission was requested to return the fire. The platoon was told to wait, and that it would be several minutes before the necessary approval could be secured. Meanwhile, the enemy fire was increasing in intensity and accuracy, and the troops were getting edgy. Still there was no approval to return the fire.
The platoon leader, a combat-seasoned first lieutenant, was growing impatient, as was his platoon sergeant.
"What would happen, Lieutenant," asked the sergeant in a manner more calculating than inquiring, "if we didn't have the damn radio, or if something happened to it?"
"I guess," said the lieutenant, "I'd have to act independently and use my own judgment."
The NCO nodded silently, then crawled quickly away to where the radio operator was listening intently. There was an ear-splitting crash and, in a few moments, the sergeant inched his way back to where the lieutenant was dug in.
"Sir, I am sorry to report that the radio is out of commission," said the sergeant.
"Very well, tell the men to go ahead and return the fire," said the straight-faced platoon leader. "By the way, what happened to the radio?"
"I'm not sure, sir," replied the equally straight-faced noncom, "but I think one of the fallopian tubes went out."
* * *
THE dense vegetation along South Vietnam's western borders provides excellent cover for Communist cadres infiltrating into the Republic. In order to make border crossings more difficult for the enemy, the Air Force has organized several units whose mission is the chemical defoliation of large tracts of wilderness. Without the heavy jungle for protection, aerial spotting of the enemy has become considerably easier.
The motto of one of these outfits, the 12th Air Commando Squadron at Bien Hoa, is "Only You Can Prevent Forests."
* * *
IF you've ever wondered what kind of men fight America's wars, maybe I can help you. Nice Guys fight America's wars, and Nice Guys don't always finish last.
Take for example the case of Staff Sergeant Robert Borja, the mess steward for the 6th Battalion, 29th Artillery, 4th Infantry Division. Bob was tending his fires shortly before supper one evening at his unit's base camp near Pleiku, when an infantry company trudged wearily in from the field. They had been in the boonies for more than three months, had eaten nothing but C-rations during that time, and had suffered nearly every imaginable hardship of war. Their company commander had been killed in a stiff fire-fight the day before, and several of their number were walking wounded. Despite all this, it wasn't long before the infantrymen got a whiff of Sergeant Borja's more than excellent chow.
In a low, almost apologetic voice, the acting CO asked if it would be possible for Sergeant Borja to feed the company. Bob looked at the hopeful faces of the bedraggled troopers and his reply to the query was nothing more nor less than his unit's motto: "Can Do."
He dug out some steaks−put aside for some more auspicious occasion, lit off some charcoal, and served piping hot meals to a company of men who had all but forgotten how good food could taste. To the modest Sergeant Borja, the gratitude of these men was embarrassing.
After supper, the infantry first sergeant asked Bob if he needed any help, and Bob allowed as how he could use two or three KPs to help clean up. A formation was called and Alpha Company, 3rd Battalion, 8th Infantry, assembled outside the mess tent to hear the First Shirt ask for KP volunteers. All 120 men of the company raised their hands, officers and NCOs included!
* * *
BEFORE we leave the 6th of the 29th, we'd like to tell you something else about the amazing bunch of guys who make up this crackerjack outfit. The artillery battalion was commanded by Lieutenant Colonel El Nettles, a fine soldier who we have known and respected for many years and, by anybody's standards, a great guy.
In July 1967, their base camp was a place called Jackson Hole, not more than a score of clicks from Pleiku, and named by the men of the 4th Infantry Division in honor of the First Brigade commander, Colonel Charles A. Jackson.
By tactical necessity, the camp was situated in the middle of a Vietnamese cemetery, long left unattended and uncared for. Most of the markers had been damaged, destroyed, or removed entirely, and the graves themselves had all but disappeared amidst a wide assortment of weeds and elephant grass.
When the 6/29th moved in to set up camp, the men of the battalion used what little leisure time they had to beautify the site. It was through this process that the ancient graves were uncovered. Rather than destroy the sites entirely, the artillery-men set about a restoration program, repairing the stones, cutting and trimming the vegetation, and fencing in the plots. Within a few months, the job was finished, even to the erection of wooden crosses, carefully painted white, where there had been no markers before.
* * *
WHEN the 6th Battalion, 29th Artillery was at Tuy Hoa, the guys used to like to sing this one to the tune of "Banks of the Wabash":
When the lice are in the rice along the Mekong,
and Ol' Charlie's in there shooting out at you.
You can bet your ass I won't be there beside you,
I'll be shacking with your co in old Pleiku.
* * *
THIS sign was posted prominently in the photo lab of Commander Naval Forces Vietnam.
NOBODY IS PERFECT
Every man is a mixture of good qualities and perhaps some not-so-good qualities. In considering our fellow man, we should remember his good qualities and realize that his faults only prove that, after all, he is a human being. We should refrain from making harsh judgments of a person just because he happens to be a dirty, rotten, miserable, no-good, sonofabitch. ·
* * *
WHEN I met "Doc" Levy he was a private first class, a medic and a good one. Seemingly fearless under fire, he was also kind and compassionate with the ever increasing number of wounded he was called upon to treat.
Over 200 pounds before the swelter of Vietnam slimmed him down, he was jut-jawed and pug-nosed, looking more like a displaced Irish hod-carrier than the Jew he was. He was paired in Charlie company with another medic, a Negro, with whom he kept up a continual, not always good natured, exchange about their ethnic origins. They made a great