Death in the Jungle Page 3
Finally, Class 36 graduated on 3 December 1965. There were a total of thirty survivors. The following men were assigned to UDT-11: Lt. (jg) Charles L. Allen, ENS Richard A. Sleight, ENS John E. Roberts, ENS Theodore Roosevelt, IV, ENS Bruce A. Smathers, Lt. George R. Worthington, BMSN Richmond Cleem, RM3 Robert R. Cramer, BM3 Francis D. Dick, BT1 John E. Fietsch, ETNSN Terry R. Fowler, AQFAN Lewis W. Miller, SFP2 Wash Moore, Jr., ABH3 George W. Raacke, SN Robert A. Schaedler, and MMFN William F. Wright. Last but by far the best were assigned to UDT-12: ENS Robert M. Blum, Lt. Robert E. Condon, Lt. (jg) Joseph G. DeFloria, ENS Thomas J. Hummer, ENS John M. Odusch, BT3 Benjamin O. Azeredo, Jr., EUL3 Bud R. Burgess, RM2 John J. Chalmers, AMHAN Ray E. Markel, ADJ3 David E. McCabe, AK3 Ronald A. Ostrander, BM2 Walter G. Pope, SF1 Donald L. Schwab, and RMSN Gary R. Smith. I was immediately assigned to the 4th Platoon.
Fourth Platoon had just returned from a tour in Vietnam and Subic Bay, Philippines. Not surprisingly the platoon was understrength due to several men getting out of the navy and others on annual leave. In December ’65, 4th Platoon’s personnel were: Lt. (jg) Hammond, DCC Edwin C. Reynolds, GMG1 George B. McNair, AE2 Walter H. Gustavel, BM3 Stephan F. Cary, RD2 Patrick T. Gruber, MR3 Michael N. Dorfi, AE3 Stephan G. Eastman, BT3 Benjamin O. Azaredo, PHAN Robert D. Totten, MRFN Leroy S. Ray, SN John J. Broda, SFPFN Alexander, NMN Verduzco, RMSN Gary R. Smith, SN Deeolla, and NMN Van Winkle.
It wasn’t long before I was told UDT-12’s genealogy. Following World War II, the UDTs became a victim of demobilization by being reduced from thirty to four teams. Two teams were assigned to the Atlantic Fleet, USNAB, Little Creek, Virginia, and two to the Pacific Fleet, USNAB, Coronado, California. On the west coast UDT-3 was the predecessor of UDT-12 and was commissioned on 21 May 1946 under the command of LCDR Walter Cooper and redesignated UDT-12 on 8 February 1954.
SN Van Winkle and PO3 Dorfi were the rugby experts in our platoon. Both were heavily muscled and excellent all-around athletes. They were always cutting up and great for morale. One bright and sunny Southern California day, Van Winkle and Dorfi decided they needed to accept me into the platoon.
Dorfi began the conversation, saying, “I think it’s time we initiate Smitty into the platoon, Wink.”
Van Winkle gave me a hard look, saying, “Yeah, he even thinks he can outrun us. Let’s show him who’s the fastest.”
“You guys don’t know what you’re about to get into,” I stated as I was backing up. “I’m a whole lot meaner than I look.”
It didn’t work. I could tell by the gleam in their eyes that it was time for me to head south for the border. The race was on! I struck out for all I was worth by heading down the strand in the soft sand toward the obstacle course. That was my undoing. They eventually caught me, beat the crap out of me, then put their arms around me and said, “Welcome to 4th Platoon, Smitty.” It was a good thing they weren’t mad at me.
Chief Ed Reynolds was great to work for. Ed had the fastest hands I’d ever seen. When he started giggling, one had best watch out for that uppercut! For some reason he always started giggling just before he threw a series of severe punches and blows to the head and body.
Joe Thrift, who had recently been assigned to 4th Platoon as the LPO, was no slouch, either. He had been a professional boxer until some guy convinced him in the ring that the Navy was the best profession. However, Joe could literally carry on a conversation by using his hands as semaphore flags. He would talk to me using semaphore and I would reply in CW code.
In March ’66, all four UDT-12 platoons began the biannual Team Olympics, two weeks of operational competition between the platoons. We had a long ocean swim, underwater mine search, beach reconnaissance, parachute accuracy test, long-distance foot race, obstacle course race, timed breath-holding while sitting and while swimming underwater, inland demolition raids, and a variety of administrative, communications, and operational skills tests.
Fourth Platoon won the title. We had the privilege and honor to represent our command during its annual ORI (Operational Readiness Inspection) by the NOSG (Naval Operations Support Group) staff. We spent the next two weeks jumping out of airplanes, diving, demonstrating demolitions, undertaking demolition raids on San Clemente Island, drawing hydrographic charts, et cetera. All went well, with UDT-12 receiving a grade of excellent and a letter to the CO and men for a job well done.
In June ’66, six of us were finally sent to Fort Benning, Georgia, to Jump School. Generally, everyone was anxious to go because once we’d graduated, we would receive a second additional fifty-five dollars a month for hazardous duty pay. Because we were divers and worked with demolitions, we were already receiving the first additional fifty-five dollars a month.
The biggest mistake I made at Fort Benning was letting a Marine Force Recon guy give me a Mohawk haircut. It was my idea and his workmanship. All went well concerning my new look during our individual inspection the next morning. No comments were made by the instructors until our daily run after PT. Because PO3 Leslie Funk and I were the fastest runners in the thousand-man class, we were given the privilege of running circles around our platoon while it ran in formation. It was during this time that we passed the Commandant of Jump School, a bird colonel.
Seeing me, he yelled, “You, get over here!” I knew I was in big trouble because of the anger in his voice. I quickly ran to him and dropped to the push-up position, yelling, “Airborne, sir.”
Continuing to yell, he spat, “You get out of my school and you get out of here now! And don’t you ever come back!”
I was crushed! I immediately jumped up and started running after my platoon, not knowing what else to do. All I could think of was that I would be the first man in UDT to get kicked out of Jump School. Man, you’ve really done it now! I thought.
The platoon had a big black sergeant running with us. He motioned for me to come over to him. I ran near to him and dropped to the lean and rest, yelling, “Airborne, Sergeant!”
“Go over to OCS (Officers Candidate School) and get a haircut,” he instructed. “When you’re done, come on back and keep your mouth shut.”
I was sure thankful that I had a friend in that sergeant! After I got my haircut and returned to the platoon, I kept my mouth closed for the remainder of the time I was at Fort Benning. I was beginning to understand the wisdom of being slow to speak, slow to anger, quick to listen, and never again to get another Mohawk haircut.
On 22 August 1966, all of UDT-12 departed for Subic Bay, Philippines aboard a Navy C-117, where we relieved UDT-11. We arrived at Naval Air Station (NAS) Cubi Point late on 24 August. Fourth Platoon consisted of the following personnel: ENS John Odusch, Chief Ed Reynolds, Bosn Joe Thrift, “R. E.” Saillant, “Moki” Martin, George Nunez, Ben Azeredo, Lou DiCroce, Alex Verduzco, Jim Girardin, Leroy Ray, and Gary Smith.
Shortly after we arrived, 4th Platoon was notified that we would board the USS Diachenko (APD 123) the next morning at 0800 hours and head for Vietnam. Until then, we were granted Cinderella liberty (liberty that was canceled at midnight) and told to muster NLT (no later than) 0600 hours at the team area near the enlisted barracks.
The next day I was riding my first “gray ghost.” The USS Diachenko had originally been a DE (Destroyer Escort) during World War II.
PO1 R. E. Saillant (Fourth Platoon) had been aboard the Diachenko during the Korean conflict with UDT-12. He commented, “The only thing that has been changed or added is the air conditioning.” The racks were of canvas with aluminum tube rims. They were to be triced up from reveille at 0600 hours till taps at 2200 hours.
Once we reached South Vietnam, we began hydrographic reconnaissance of beaches from the Cambodian border to the Tan Phu Peninsula of Kien Hoa province. Hydrographic reconnaissance was conducted to get an accurate map of the bottom of the ocean along the shore, wherever the possibility of an amphibious landing existed. After the tragedy of Tarawa in World War II, where the landing crafts were grounded on uncharted reefs and where many Marines were shot to pieces and drown
ed in deep tidal pools, the Navy perfected the procedures of creating hydrographic charts by two methods: 1) combat reconnaissance with UDT swimmers; the UDT reconnaissance of an enemy-held beach was usually completed the night before the amphibious landing with the combat demolition of the obstacles at predawn; and 2) administrative reconnaissance; usually done after the amphibious landing had taken place, or at any time, to gather hydrographic information of any designated beach or area. It was done during the day under secure conditions and was more accurate.
Generally, we were able to perform administrative recons because the U.S. Army Special Forces and their indigenous troops secured the beaches for us. Seldom did we come under fire. Some days we swam for twelve hours or more. Because I was also a cartographer, I had to work on the development of the hydrographic charts after swimming all day. Occasionally, Chief Reynolds would have mercy on me and let me be beach security for a day or so.
On 1 September, we got to go to Singapore for five days’ liberty. I really enjoyed visiting the famous Raffles Hotel, where “Bring ’em Back Alive” Frank Buck used to stay in the thirties and forties.
After our short stay in Singapore, we headed south for the equator. When we reached the magic point, all hands who weren’t Shellbacks were called “Pollywogs” and were hand-delivered a “Subpoena and Summons Extraordinary” from “The Royal High Court of the Raging Main.” It read:
WHEREAS, the good ship USS Diachenko (APD 123), bound for Subic Bay, Philippines, is about to enter our domain, and the aforesaid ship carries a large and slimy cargo of land-lubbers, beach-combers, cargo-rats, sea-lawyers, lounge-lizards, parlor dunnigans, plow-deserters, park-bench warmers, chicken-chasers, hay-tossers, sand-crabs, four-flushers, crossword-puzzle bugs and all other living creatures of the land, and last but not least, he-vamps, liberty-hounds and drugstore cowboys falsely masquerading as seamen and man-o’-warsmen of which you are a member, having never appeared before us; and
WHEREAS, the Royal High Court of the Raging Main has been convened by us on board of the good ship USS Diachenko (APD 123) on the seventh day of September, 1966 at Longitude 105 degrees and Latitude 0 degrees 0 minutes 0 seconds, and an inspection of our Royal High Roster shows that it is high time the sad and wandering nautical soul of that much abused body of yours appeared before the High Tribunal of Neptune; and
BE IT KNOWN, That we hereby summon and command you, Gary Smith, RM3, now a plow-deserter, U.S.N., to appear before the Royal High Court and Our August Presence on the aforesaid date at such time as may best suit our pleasure, and to accept most heartily and with a good grace the pains and penalties of the awful tortures that will be inflicted upon you for daring to enter our aqueous and equinoctial regions without due and submissive ceremony to be examined as to fitness to become one of our Trusty Shellbacks, and a worthy Son of the Sea and answer to the following charges:
CHARGE I. In that Gary Smith, RM3, now a hay-tosser, U.S.N., has hitherto willfully and maliciously failed to show reverence and allegiance to our Royal Person, and is therein and thereby a vile land-lubber and pollywog.
CHARGE II. In that you brush your teeth with onion sauce causing a Trusty Shellback to become ill by your bad breath.
CHARGE III. In that you take a shower with Right Guard only and have no decency among the Sons of the Sea. Disobey this summons under pain of our swift and terrible displeasure. Our vigilance is ever wakeful, our vengeance is just and sure!!!
Given under our hand and seal
Attest, for the King:
DAVY JONES, Scribe.
NEPTUNUS REX
Shortly after the Summons, the humiliation and torture that went with crossing the equator began. The Corpsman and the ship’s head cook got together and concocted a terrible mess of goo that smelled and looked worse than a bucket filled with rotted toads and maggots. The long trail of humiliation and gagging began as we were forced to crawl on our hands and knees and to kiss the belly of the Royal Baby, who just happened to be the head cook, who stood about five foot six and weighed 225 pounds.
I didn’t mind the thought of having to gingerly kiss his revolting stomach; it was the mass of rotted toads and maggots smeared on it that made me gag. Yessir, the Royal Baby was a fine-looking specimen, sitting there in his boxer shorts, crown on his head, and crap on his gut.
I didn’t crawl any closer than I had to. I stretched out my neck and tried for a light kiss—I wasn’t interested in getting that mess smeared all over my face. The smell was absolutely revolting! Suddenly the Royal Baby grabbed my head and forced my face into the pit of hell, rubbing my face around and around in it.
“Shit!” was my immediate response, followed by gagging and trying to get away from that retarded pig. Wait till I get my hands on Doc, I thought. I’m gonna put this evil mess in all of his shoes, fill his toothpaste tube with it, and smear it all over his pillow. Damn his worthless hide! I might even take their “aqueous and equinoctial regions” and, with a total lack of “submissive ceremony,” shove it up their armpits.
My next travail was to crawl through a passageway where good ole Trusty Shellbacks were standing on both sides waiting with three foot sections of canvas fire hose. This ought to be fun, I thought; all I’ve got on is my UDT swim trunks! Shit!
I lowered my head and charged like a sex-crazed water buffalo, growling and snorting until the blows of the fire hose started taking effect. By the time I got through the gauntlet, I felt more like a neutered warthog.
Continuing to crawl, I was forced to enter into the back end of a thirty-foot beast, made of sheets. It was filled with vile-smelling, decomposed, leftover food, and other unknown ingredients. No doubt Doc and Cookie had something to do with that, too.
I hadn’t gotten more than six feet inside the sheets when I began to feel that I was in the stomach of a large and nasty saltwater crocodile. He began to twist, roll and toss me to and fro. At one point I was totally buried in a mass of slimy ground beef, chicken liver and gizzards, flour, hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, squashed tomatoes, boiled okra, food coloring, et cetera. My nose and ears were filled with the foul mess! It was impossible to breathe. If I only had had my SCUBA gear!
I finally managed to reach the opposite end of the beast, and crawled out its mouth to the fantail (open main deck in the after part of the ship) where I was then considered a Trusty Shellback. A fellow Trusty Shellback started washing me down with a fire hose. By the end of the day, everyone had had enough of Neptunus Rex and his stinking equator.
The USS Diachenko and 4th Platoon were then directed to the DMZ to participate in the DECKHOUSE IV amphibious operation, which would take place about three miles south of the DMZ. Myself and PO2 Azeredo were dropped off one mile from the coast by motorized IBS the night before the Marines assaulted the beach at dawn. Our mission was to swim to the beach and take surf observations. That entailed visually measuring the heights of the waves for the high and low series, the distance from the beach to the first breakers, the time between each wave, condition of the beach, et cetera, information that was very important for the assault boat coxswains, the Seabee Beachmaster Unit, not to mention the Marines and support units involved in the task force.
It was a moonless night with ideal conditions for clandestine swimmers. All went well until we began swimming back to our rendezvous with the IBS. A large dark shadow gradually drifted toward us. As it got closer we recognized it as a Vietnamese junk. When it came within fifty feet of us, we saw that our only options were to wave our K-bar knives at them, dive underwater, or remain very quiet and still. We chose the latter, and the junk drifted by without spotting us.
We continued toward our rendezvous point, where we turned on a strobe light that was covered with an infrared lens. Within a half hour, the motorized IBS crew spotted us with their metascope infrared receiver and picked us up.
The next morning, the Marines, Beach Master Unit, and Seabees hit the beach. Initially, the Marines encountered little resistance on the beach. However, it was a di
fferent story as they moved inland while paralleling the Cua Viet River. Eventually, they established a small base at Dong Ha where they could be resupplied by Navy LCU (Landing Craft Utility) boats and aircraft.
In January ’67, while 4th Platoon was based out of the Navy’s Camp Tien Sha just outside Da Nang, Jim Girardin and I were assigned to go to Don Ha with our diving gear to change a damaged screw on an LCM-8 (Landing Craft Mechanized). We traveled up the Cua Viet by LCU. Surprisingly, we were never fired upon by the NVA.
Once we accomplished our task at Don Ha, we were taken back out to the mouth of the Qua Viet River where we rendezvoused with the Navy Beachmaster LARKs. Jim and I spent several days diving on a broken land-intake fuel line that supplied fuel for the Marine and Navy operations to and from Dong Ha. The intake fuel line was buoyed approximately one mile to sea from the mouth of the Cua Viet River. Apparently the refueling tankers regularly got underway without disconnecting their fuel line from the buoyed land line intake! The weather was stormy, the seas were rough, the underwater surge tossed us to and fro and against the bottom. The visibility was usually less than a foot. With the Beachmasters’ help, we finally got the fuel line intake repaired.
In February of ’67, 4th Platoon was tasked to administratively recon several beaches south of Chu Lai shortly after the Marines had landed nearby during the DECKHOUSE IV amphibious operation. Again the weather was stormy and the seas were very rough. The surf was plunging and about ten feet in height. The inshore winds didn’t help the surf situation, either. Occasionally, the Marines received sniper fire and several men were killed or wounded. Other than our folks on the beach running the recon, the swimmers were in little danger of getting shot. Our worst enemy was the tidal current and rip tides.
The 4th Platoon’s swimmer line was to run perpendicular to the beach and out to sea for five hundred yards. There was a swimmer stationed at each of the twenty-five-yard markers on the line. The beach party would control the movement of the swimmer line by using two flagpoles to ensure swimmer alignment and to signal the swimmers, once they were lined up, when to take a sounding with their lead-line. In good weather, calm seas, and low surf, the admin recon was a lot of fun. However, when conditions were like those at Chu Lai, it was very dangerous. We had a terrible time getting ourselves and the swimmer line just to the two-hundred-yard mark. Actually, we never got through the surf zone because it extended much farther than five hundred yards. The waves were spaced so closely together that there was no chance to take a sounding and record the reading on our slates, much less keep a straight swimmer line.