They Called Us Currahees: The 3-506 Vietnam Legacy

By Jerald W. Berry

“They Called Us Currahees” is not a stand-alone publication, yet serves as an invaluable compilation of historical information concerning the participation of the 101st Airborne Infantry Division in the Vietnam War. I have authored other companion books, which explain in greater detail the many incidents, battles, and missions involving the 3-506th Infantry “Currahees”.
“The Stand Alone Battalion”, published in 2002 is a pictorial chronology of the 3-506 participation in the Vietnam War from 1967-1971. “My Gift To You”, published in 2006, contains the stories of those Currahees who died in Vietnam while serving with the 3-506 101st Airborne Division. The book, “Twelve Days In May”, released in 2010, explains in great detail the involvement of the 3-506, as well as the 4th Infantry Division Infantry Battalions and support units, in the northern thrust into Cambodia (Operation Binh Tay I) while OPCON to the 4th Infantry Division in May 1970.
These companion books, together with “They Called Us Currahees” will give a comprehensive representation of combat in South Vietnam from the personal perspective of those who served with the 3-506 Infantry, fought the battles and suffered the many scars of war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664172784

Jerald W. Berry

JERALD W. JERRY BERRY was a rifleman in Company A, 3rd Battalion, 506th Airborne Infantry, 101st Airborne Division during the Vietnam War. He deployed with his battalion by ship to South Vietnam in October 1967 and was wounded at the beginning of the infamous Communist Tet Offensive in January 1968. In addition to the Purple Heart Medal, Berry received for his wounds in action, he cherishes above others, his Jump Wings, Combat Infantry Badge (CIB), Bronze Star, and Valorous Unit Award that was earned by his battalion for its combat action during the Siege of Phan Thiet in February 1968. After completing his tour of duty in Vietnam, Berry returned home to Mississippi, where he continued his college education, married the love of his life, and began his thirty-year career with the U. S. Forest Service. Following his retirement from Government service as a Staff Wildlife Biologist in 1997, Berry began to pursue his writing career as a Vietnam War historian. He is the author of several booksPsychological Warfare Leaflets of the Vietnam War, The Stand Alone Battalion, A Pictorial Chronology of the 3-506 Vietnam Odyssey (1967-1971), My Gift To You, and Twelve Days in MayThe 1970 Cambodia Incursion Story. He currently resides in Libby, Montana with his wife of 44-years, Donna, and continues his dedication to the legacy of the 3-506 by maintaining an active Internet website (www.currahee.org) for his fellow Currahees.

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Copyright © 2021 by Jerald Jerry W. Berry.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/03/2021

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Preface

Book One: MEANDERING TRAILS

1 AT HOME IN MISSISSIPPI

• At Home In Mississippi

• Uncle Sam

• Drafted!

• A Reprieve

• A Soldier’s Diary

2 IN THE ARMY NOW

• Basic Combat Training

• Advanced Individual Training (AIT)

• Airborne Training Jump School

3 PREPARATION FOR COMBAT

• Preparation for Combat

• The Stand Alone Battalion – 3-506

4 DEPLOYMENT AND SEA VOYAGE

• POM (Preparation For Overseas Movement)

Book Two: THE VIETNAM LEGACY BEGINS

5 THE ARRIVAL

• Vietnam – The Arrival

• The Eagle’s Roost

• P-Training

6 OPERATIONS ROSE

• Operation ROSE

• The Enemy

• The Smell, Sound and Taste of Combat

• A Day to Remember

7 OPERATION KLAMATH FALLS

• Operation KLAMATH FALLS

• The Tahine Incident

• The Hunt

• Pursuit and First Contact

• Christmas in the Highlands

• The Battle at the Knoll

• In Retrospect

8 THE COMBAT JUMP

• Back to Phan Rang

• Operation SAN ANGELO – The Combat Jump

Book Three: THE LEGACY CONTINUES

9 AO MCLAIN

• A New Home

10 TET COMMUNIST OFFENSIVE

• Tet Offensive

• The Night Hunter Incident

• The Battle at the Cemetery

• The Battle at Xuan Phong Hamlet

• Pursuit

• Battle at Phu Bon Hamlet

• Battle at Ca Ty River

• Crossing the Ca Ty River

• Chasing Charlie

11 THE LULL

• The Lull

• Missing Engineer

• The Ox Cart Incident

• A Family Divided – The Infusion Program

12 SEARCH AND DESTROY

• The Le Hong Phong Forest Ambush

• Another Le Hong Phong Ambush Battle

• LRRP Team Zap NVA Cadre

• The Frank Pinna Story

• Operation MR-6

• Mistaken Identity - The Romeo 2 Incident

• One Last Mission

• Song Cai River Incident

• Battle At Song Mao

• Arrow Team

• Operation ROCKNE GOLD

• The POW Story

• The Big Blow

• The Convoy Incident

• Operation BANJO ROYCE

• The Rice Cache Incident

• Change-of-Command

• Operation HARMON GREEN

• The POW Incident

• Battle at Whiskey Mountain

• Love on a Roll

• Battle in Le Hong Phong Forest

• Hardcore Viet Cong Women

• Beating the Odds

• Battle at Dai Hoa Village

• Boat Troopers Return to the U.S.

• Going Home – A Farewell to Comrades

• Back in the Real World

• Operation Le Hong Phong

Book Four: THE LEGACY EVOLVES

13 DOUBLE EAGLES OPERATIONS

• DOUBLE EAGLES Operations

• A Fatal Decision

• The Battle at Outpost SARA

• Blackhawk’s C&C Helicopter Crash

• Attack on LZ BETTY

• Pacific Stars & Stripes

14 PAIR-OFF OPERATIONS

• Pair-Off Operations

• Incident at Outpost Nora

• The Matchlight Incident

15 CHASING CHARLIE

• Chasing Charlie

• Amphibious Assault

• Operation SOUTHERN FREE STRIKE

16 BAN ME THUOT

• Ban Me Thuot

• Christmas in the Crow’s Foot

Book Five: THE VIETNAM LEGACY FINALE

17 HILLS, CAVES AND JUNGLES

• Hills, Caves and Jungles

• Battle for Hill 474

• Tiger Mountain

• The Lost Command

18 CAMBODIA

• Into Cambodia

• Recon POWs

• The Fatal Decision

• Rice Jackpot

• Fatal Ambush

• Mother Lode

• Bamboo Bridge Ambush

19 DÉJÀ VU

• Déjà Vu

20 FAMILY REUNION

• Rejoining The Division

• Deactivation and Reassignment

• 3-506 & TF 3-506 Annual Reunions

Appendix

Creation of Task Force 3-506th

BATTALION UNIT-PHOTOGRAPH CAPTIONS

• Headquarters and Headquarters Company

• Company A (Alpha)

• Company B (Bravo)

• Company C (Charlie)

• Reconnaissance – Currahee Shock Force (CSF)

• Battalion Staff Photo Key

• Photo Credits

Glossary

Bibliography

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the families and loved ones of all the men who served with the Currahees of the 3rd Battalion, 506th (Airborne) Infantry, Task Force 3-506th, and the 4th Infantry Division Cambodia Operation Task Force veterans (1970)—and to the families whose lives were forever changed by the loss of their loved ones during the Vietnam War.

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he today that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother."

-Shakespeare, Henry V, Act IV, Scene 3

Battalion Commanders

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Acknowledgements

It has been over fifty years since my tour of duty as a rifleman in the 3-506, 101st Airborne in the Vietnam War. Like all my fellow Screaming Eagles, a wealth of photographs, information, and personal experience came home with me as a young soldier. In addition to my own personal photographs and experience, many of my fellow Vietnam Veterans have generously shared their own personal stories and photographs (See Photo Credits in Appendix) to make this book more complete. We share a bond that has withstood the perils of war, the loss of friends, and the painful memories of Vietnam.

My heartfelt thanks goes to Dan Linn (C/3-506th) for his valuable help in making sure my map plotting and distance calculations were as accurate as we could make them. I wish to also thank the members of our support units (TF 3-506), who also contributed photos and other information in support of this book. Henry Parker, Alex Taubinger, James Godfrey, Jon Domagota, George Moses, David Fitchpatrick, Rix Groves, Ed Gaydos, and John Perez. Gary Evans, and Robert Sparks for their contribution of pictures on behalf of our support units. Special thanks goes to the 4th Infantry members of the Cambodia Operation Bart VanValkenburgh, Harold Hall, Douglas Milliken, and Steven Sutton.

All of their combined efforts have made this publication more factual. Without the devotion and assistance of our fellow Currahees in retrieving and copying countless pages of documentary material from the National Archives, the chronology of the Currahee Battalion involvement in the Vietnam War would not be as factual.

Special recognition must also go to my devoted wife, Donna, for her many hours of work as my personal writer/editor. A wealth of gratitude is also extended to my wonderful daughter, Stephanie, for her expertise in graphic design. Her creative skills have made the cover design and formatting of this book possible.

Foreword

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L-R: Gen. William C. Westmoreland with

LTC Robert M. Elton Spider at LZ BETTY (Early 1968)

I consider myself honored to have been asked to provide a few thoughts for the book, They Called Us Currahees! It was also a unique privilege to have been able to serve with the 3rd Battalion of the 506th Parachute Infantry during their initial year of combat in the Republic of Vietnam. I was serving on the staff of the lst Brigade when the Commander, then Brigadier General Salve Matheson, told me to go to Phan Thiet and take Command of the Currahees! It was January 1967, and the remainder of the 101st Airborne Division had just closed into the Republic of Vietnam and were becoming embroiled in operations in I Corps. The 3/506 Parachute Infantry was a magnificently trained fighting unit. John Geraci had worked with them at Ft. Campbell and brought them to South Vietnam in October of 1967. The Battalion had sustained casualties; but by the time the South Vietnamese were preparing for TET, their New Year in 1968, the Battalion stood blessed with aggressive young Lieutenants and Captains, knowledgeable and highly competent NCOs, and America’s finest young Airborne soldiers in cohesive small units.

My service with the Currahees occurred from February 1968 through June 1968. When the change of command ceremony was conducted in late January, the combined forces of the NVA and VC were just being beaten back in their offensive at Phan Thiet, as F-4 Phantom jets circled an area of suspected enemy strength during the ceremony. The city of Phan Thiet was Ho Chi Minh’s birthplace and stood astride the north-south route of QL-1. Capture of the city would have been a major political and emotional achievement for the Communist forces. The 3rd Battalion crushed their initial offensive during TET; however, there were to be two more attempts to capture Phan Thiet.

Shortly after the TET Offensive, the Battalion evolved its mission and operational methods. Lieutenant General William Peers, the I Field Force Commander, flew to the Battalion complex at the Phan Thiet airfield. After a briefing from the Battalion staff, he took me aside and said, "Whenever you have a sizeable contact within the four provinces that includes the cities of Phan Thiet, Phan Rang, Bao Loc, and Dalat, I want your Battalion Task Force to go to it, get involved, and win it." This directive was never put into writing, but nevertheless guided our operations while I commanded the Battalion for the next six months.

Within the next few weeks, the Battalion became a true Task Force. We were provided two artillery batteries, one from the 320th Airborne and one from the 5/27th. We received OPCON of an Engineer company, a platoon of quad fifty caliber machine guns and twin 40 mm dusters from the 4/67 ADA (Airfield Defense Artillery), a Log Support Area, an Air Force and Army FAC, an assault helicopter company, portions of a medium lift helicopter company, USN destroyers that patrolled off shore with a Marine GLO, additional intelligence collection assets, and an ammunition storage facility.

The enemy did not wait for us to find them, however. They attacked the city of Phan Thiet on two more occasions, bound and determined to capture the city. The initial attack came in late January and early February, and was quickly repulsed. After obtaining more forced recruits from throughout the area, the enemy attacked the city in March-April and succeeded in penetrating almost to the gates of the ARVN compound. It took a courageous rush by Charlie Company in five 2 ½ -ton trucks to crash through the flank at lightning speed and into the gates of the compound. They deployed their weapons on the fortifications, called in air strikes, and directed mortar and recoilless rifle fire to stop the attack. Squads moved out of the compound to finish off the penetration. Never could our Nation be prouder of its Airborne troopers. They fought for four straight days and remained on station to continue to push the last enemy elements out of the city. The NVA/VC never again tried to capture Phan Thiet. Captured intelligence reports indicated that they were shocked at the violence of our defense.

The Battalion Task Force then moved to repulse and defeat NVA/VC forces at Phan Rang, Dalat, Bao Loc, Song Mao, and in the Le Hong Phong Forest. I turned the Battalion over to LTC Walter Price during the cleanup at Bao Loc in July of 1968. The officers and men of the Battalion had come through a great many firefights. They had operated in small tiger teams and had completely destroyed the effectiveness of the enemy units in Operation MR-6. The enemy could not control our maneuver and firepower on contact. Our air assaults, artillery assisted by Naval gunfire, brought troops to contact with great lethality. I had personal opportunities to see the great versatility and skill of the American Paratrooper in action. My only regret is that we suffered some casualties. Their sacrifice was never really understood or appreciated by many people in America. However, the actions of the men of the 3rd Battalion were always in the highest traditions of magnificent, compassionate soldiers.

We have come more than fifty years from those days. The many emails that I have read from former members of the Battalion talk of great experiences. Dave Rivers reported on his visit to the Phan Thiet Airfield and our former base camp. Our former base camp at LZ BETTY is completely gone as we knew it. Many miles have been walked since those days, but regardless of the errors made elsewhere and the political decisions that governed our operations and commitment, all of the men in this book can stand proud that they were a distinguished band of brothers. They exhibited the many skills and compassions of the finest paratroopers in our Army’s history. In the years since you left Vietnam, others have followed your lead and the example that you set — Independent — Integrated — Agile — Aggressive. Stand Tall Currahee! You earned it!

Robert M. Elton

LTG, USA, Retired

Airborne

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Preface

The Year—1943. A time of tremendous upheaval and war throughout the world. The uneasy years since the end of the "Great War—WWI —had finally erupted into the cataclysm that was World War II.

Adolf Hitler, the ideological Nazi dictator of Germany, had invaded neighboring countries and dominated the majority of Europe. Millions of people from various ethnic backgrounds languished in the slave labor camps of Germany and Poland. By 1943, Hitler’s incessant hatred of the Jews of Europe had driven him to order the deaths of thousands of Jewish men, women, and children on a daily basis in his elaborate extermination camps. There was no safe place to escape the carnage surrounding them. The people of Europe had lost their freedom.

Even our own country, the United States, had been drawn into the havoc enveloping the world when the Japanese attacked our naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, in the early morning hours of December 7, 1941. Following this blatant assault on the last bastion of freedom in the world, our country could not avoid its participation in World War II. Preparations were begun in earnest, and an overwhelming number of patriotic young men stepped up to volunteer their service in defense of our great country.

Thousands of these American men would become part of a new elite group of fighting men known as paratroopers. From August 1942, they trained extensively for combat in Europe. Once the detailed plans for Operation Overlord—the D-Day Invasion of Europe—began to materialize, the bloused boots of soldiers with jump wings pinned to their chests were ultimately transferred to England in Great Britain to continue training for their debut with Hitler’s storm troopers.

A sleeping giant had been awakened once the paratroopers docked in Liverpool, England on October 18, 1943. Nazi Germany would be no match against the best-trained American troopers ever to be sent into battle. The world would soon know the legacy of the 82nd and 101st Airborne in combat. Their bravery and accomplishments during WW II would earn them the right to be members of the The Greatest Generation.

About a week after those paratroopers landed in England, a future paratrooper would be born into this world in the backwoods of Grenada County, Mississippi. On a cold October night, a country midwife was summoned to the humble sharecropper cabin of Berbon and Lillie Mae Berry. Around midnight on October 25, 1943, I was delivered into the arms of my mother as the ninth child added to her already large family. Just as those paratroopers who were serving our country as I took my first breath, I too would share their Rendezvous With Destiny.

Each individual is born with a trail of life to follow. Some paths are short and simple, while others are long and complicated. Our human trails can vary greatly from being relatively straight, with few obstacles or challenges, to undulating uphill climbs fraught with pitfalls and difficulty. This book begins with the story of my trail of life, which eventually led me to serve my country as a paratrooper in the famed 506th Airborne Infantry, 101st Airborne Infantry Division, Screaming Eagles.

This book begins with my autobiography, tracing the path that brought me ultimately to the 101st Airborne and the Vietnam War. As an infantryman, as well as the battalion PIO, I have been able to combine my experiences in war with many personal photographs in tracing my tour of duty with the 3rd Battalion, 506th Infantry (Airborne), 101st Airborne Division in South Vietnam from October 1967 to September 1968.

The remainder of the book continues the proud traditions of the Currahees as new recruits and replacement troops revolved through the ranks for the remainder of 1968 through May 1971, when the 3-506 finally left South Vietnam. Beyond my tour as an original member of the 3-506, I had to rely on my fellow Currahees who served after me in order to reconstruct the facts of battles, as well as the names of officers and the names of those who died. Without their assistance, the remainder of this book beyond my own tour would not be as factual and complete. It is with great pride that I present this book to you—my fellow Currahees, fellow Task Force members, my family, and future generations. — Currahee!

"They Called Us Currahees is not a stand-alone publication, yet serves as an invaluable compilation of historical information concerning the participation of the 101st Airborne Infantry Division in the Vietnam War. I have authored other companion books, which explain in greater detail the many incidents, battles, and missions involving the 3-506th Infantry Currahees".

"The Stand Alone Battalion", published in 2002 is a pictorial chronology of the 3-506 participation in the Vietnam War from 1967-1971. "My Gift To You", published in 2006, contains the stories of those Currahees who died in Vietnam while serving with the 3-506 101st Airborne Division. The book, Twelve Days In May, released in 2010, explains in great detail the involvement of the 3-506, as well as the 4th Infantry Division Infantry Battalions and support units, in the northern thrust into Cambodia (Operation Binh Tay I) while OPCON to the 4th Infantry Division in May 1970.

These companion books, together with They Called Us Currahees will give a comprehensive representation of combat in South Vietnam from the personal perspective of those who served with the 3-506 Infantry, fought the battles and suffered the many scars of war.

MY GIFT TO YOU

I went to war;

And gave my life;

For a foreign country

All riddled with strife.

Be it another time,

Another place;

The loss for my loved ones,

Might be easier to face.

My loved ones feel the emptiness,

And the pain;

Yet what they lost,

Was not in vain.

When all is said and done,

For me the victory was definitely won;

My death gave freedom one more day,

No matter what others might say.

Don’t weep for me because I’m gone;

For in my death, I was not alone.

My brothers are with me, looking back;

Through that granite wall so shiny and black.

My gift to you--it had a price;

Bought and paid with great sacrifice.

Remember my death and continue to pray,

For our soldiers who still walk along harm’s way.

--Donna G. Berry

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Map of Indochina

Book One

MEANDERING TRAILS

At Home In Mississippi

The definite advantage of being from a large family was the sheer number of hands to help. The older siblings took care of the younger ones and helped with the numerous daily chores. Of course, harvest time meant that every one of us old enough to work in the fields did so, without complaint. My siblings and I spent many a hot day in the cotton field, pulling a nine-foot cotton sack behind us, as we stuffed it as fast as we could with those precious white tufts that meant our livelihood from one season to the next.

My family did not have many of the modern conveniences enjoyed by others. We had no indoor plumbing for running water to service the kitchen or otherwise, which meant no bathroom with a bathtub, toilet, or sink. Some of the simple shacks we lived in had no electricity to provide light, heat, or air conditioning. We huddled around the woodstove in winter and suffered through the sweltering, humid heat of summer. My childhood years were similar to the adventurous lives of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. When I was not attending school, I lived for the solitude of hunting and fishing in the hardwood thickets of the countryside. I grew up with practically nothing material wise, but my memories are filled with love and family closeness.

By the time I turned sixteen, the decade of the 60s was about to be ushered in. This period would become known as The Decade of Tumult and Change in our country, during which established social mores and morals would be greatly tested. In the words of the great English novelist, Charles Dickens, who had written the classic Tale of Two Cities almost a century earlier—It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us…. Oh, how much those elegant words fit my world at that time. The 60s brought changes into my life and to America. My generation would be consumed by them.

After graduating from a small, rural high school in the spring of 1962, fate directed me toward eventual enrollment in a two-year, post-secondary college for the upcoming fall semester. I was amazed that I had even qualified for acceptance at Holmes Junior College. My grades were not exemplary—far from it. The graduating class from Valley High School was all of seventeen students; my grade point average put me at number sixteen among all those country scholars!

Thankful for the chance to broaden my horizons, I viewed college as sort of an adventure. I had never lived away from home and was definitely leery of big cities with lots of people. To have been so apprehensive about attending college, I became totally enthralled with campus life soon after beginning my freshman year. My experience had such a positive effect on my life that I actually made the Dean’s List. I was shocked to know that I actually could apply my brain power and achieve substantive results.

During the spring of my freshman year at Holmes Junior, I became acquainted with the physics professor, Dr. Frank Drake. I did not realize it at the time, but this fine gentleman would be the catalyst in helping me break the chains of poverty and setting my feet on the path to success and fulfillment in my life. Doctor Drake was not only a quite learned professor, but he had the ability to blend with his students on a friendly basis. He invited me to go fishing and hunting with him on numerous occasions and seemed to take a genuine interest in my future. I respected him greatly and have since considered him to be one of the most influential mentors in my early years.

Doctor Drake had been a Smokejumper for the U.S. Forest Service in the western states of Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Montana during the 1950’s. I was mesmerized by his detailed stories about parachuting from aircraft into the remote mountainous wilderness area of the northwest to confront and fight raging forest fires. His arduous treks through the mountains and encounters with the wildlife of the region seemed so exciting to me. The fascination of his tales fueled my desire for experiencing true adventure. Ever since childhood, I would be awed by the heavily timbered mountainous pictures that appeared on wall calendars hanging in our local general store. To me, places such as these seemed far away, totally unreachable except in my mind.

With Dr. Drake’s influence, I was convinced to personally make the first step forward and experience the esthetic beauty of the northwest. I began the arduous chore of filling out numerous applications (approximately 80) for available summer jobs with the U.S. Forest Service throughout the western states and Alaska. My enthusiasm spilled over to several of my friends, and I finally persuaded Don Olives and Wayne Morgan to join me in the quest for summer jobs in the northwest. All of our queries to numerous National Forests yielded only one job offer for each of us, and we were excited to accept summer positions with the Clearwater National Forest in Idaho.

The plan was to travel together to our summer jobs on motorcycles, so we could see the country along the way evolve from delta, to the plains, to the mountains. By the end of spring semester, I owned a new, shiny Honda 305 Dream. My friend, Don, had opted for a used Harley 74. Neither Wayne nor Don were as excited to make the 2,000-mile trip to Idaho on motorcycles as I was; so after a long debate, my buddies decided to travel by car. They pooled their money and bought a used 1954 Ford sedan for the trip. At that point, I was on my own and ready to start my first big-life adventure.

At that time, the Forest Service maintained and operated out of large work camps for the summer work season. Almost all of their summer employees were college students from throughout the United States. I was assigned to the Musselshell Work Center on the Pierce Ranger District of the Clearwater National Forest in central Idaho. Out of the 33 guys gathered there to work in Fire Control, 23 of them were from Mississippi. I fit in quite easily with this group of young guys, all of us anxious to experience life in the Rocky Mountains.

During the summer of 1964, I fought forest fires, cleared trails, and fished in many cold, clear mountain streams and lakes. Before I realized, it was almost time to wake up from my dream and go back to college. Near the middle of August, one of the northwest’s prime big game species, the Rocky Mountain elk, would begin their breeding season. I had seen these majestic animals during the summer as they quietly grazed in mountain meadows, but had yet to hear that distinct sound bellowed by a bull elk calling his harem of cows together for the annual breeding ritual. Oh, how I wanted to stay there in that pristine wilderness and hunt for the fall season; but at the end of fire season, I packed up my belongings along with the other guys and headed home for my second year of college.

That second year at Homes Junior College just could not pass quickly enough for me. It was difficult to focus on schoolwork when my mind kept drifting to thoughts of returning to Idaho for another summer with the Forest Service. As long as I remained enrolled in college during the school year, I was guaranteed my summer jobs. During my final semester at HJC, I applied for admission and was accepted for enrollment at the prestigious home of the Crimson Tide and the legendary football coach, Paul Bear Bryant. When I returned from my second summer with the Forest Service, I would be a student at the University of Alabama for my third year of college.

By the time spring semester was over, I had sold my prized motorcycle and bought a light blue 1963 MGA Roadster (Photo 1). My good friend, Charles Smith, had also been hired for the summer season on the Clearwater National Forest; so two days after graduation from HJC, the two of us headed for Idaho. It was the best of times…

004_a_lbj6.jpg

Photo 1. Jerry and his MGA at Musselshell Work

Center, Clearwater N.F., Idaho in summer 1965

The summer of 1965 was even more enjoyable than the previous one. My duties in fire control were the same; and my time off was spent fishing, hiking, and camping in a country that I had assumed totally inaccessible for me prior to this point in my life. Just as before, the summer came to an end too quickly. Fire season was over, the elk began their age-old breeding ritual, and the boys of summer returned to their lives as students.

Being a student at the University of Alabama was quite exciting. The campus itself was much larger than the two-year college I attended in Mississippi. Life on campus at Bama was never boring; there was plenty to do, lots of friends to hang out with, and wonderful football games to attend. As a junior, my coursework was much more difficult; but I managed to make it through the year and looked forward to spending my third summer in the northwest. As usual, I managed to get a job for the summer for one of my classmate friends; so we both packed up the MGA and headed west.

Once among that breathless landscape of the Clearwater National Forest again, I knew that life in the northwest had definitely taken hold of my senses, my desire for adventure, and my yearning to be a permanent part of it. The pull was similar in spirit of the wilderness calling to a true mountain man. Thus far, I had managed to resist the temptation of succumbing to the call of the wilderness; but by the end of the summer of 1966, I felt that I belonged to the northwest more than the delta country of Mississippi. I decided not to enroll for the fall semester at Bama and stay for the general hunting season there in Idaho. At that point in my 21-year-old life, I did not realize what this decision would cost me.

Looming in the background all the while were the developments militarily in a small country in southeast Asia called Vietnam, but I chose not to think about my country’s involvement overseas—I had elk hunting on my mind! Surely Uncle Sam would not miss one red-headed, skinny guy that could not see very well without his glasses. Besides, I had a student deferment according to the Selective Service. One semester away from school could not possibly change my status. The plan was to skip fall semester, get in a couple months of hunting in Idaho, return home by Thanksgiving, then register for spring semester back at the University of Alabama. All seemed rational in my mind, and the urge to take down a trophy bull elk was much stronger than any fear of becoming AWOL with the Selective Service. It was the age of foolishness…

My dream continued. I was given continuing employment with the Forest through late fall of 1966 as a Fire Lookout stationed at the Austin Ridge Forest Lookout Tower. I would man this post until the usual fall rains eventually diminished the threat of forest fires.

Life was good. The solitude of the lookout tower soothed me, and I was awed by the sights and sounds surrounding me. Deer and elk walked the forest floor beneath the tower, unaware of my presence. It was like nothing I had ever experienced in my life—just me and the wilderness. I never left my post for town. Mail, food, and other supplies were delivered to me by other Forest Service personnel. I was getting paid to wander through a dream, without a care in the world.

Uncle Sam

Unaware that my letters from the folks back home were a welcomed treat, one letter from my mother was quite disturbing. She told me that an official-looking letter had arrived earlier from the Selective Service System, Local Board 18, Grenada, Mississippi. She had not opened the letter, but assured me that it looked official and important. Wanting to know if she should send it to me, I hurriedly wrote her back telling her to forward the dreaded letter to me, since I would not be home until Thanksgiving. Mail delivery at my lookout post was sporadic, and I was fortunate to get mail once a week when the Forest Service sent up my supplies. It would take another week before I could get the letter out to her with my next resupply.

All male U.S. citizens who are between the ages of 18 and 26 are required by law to register with Selective Service within 30 days of their 18th birthday. They must also notify the Selective Service within ten days of any changes to any of the information they provided on their registration cards, such as a change of address, entering college, etc., When I enrolled in college, I had a classification of S-2 (Student Deferment). With my brilliant decision not to register for the fall semester at Bama, I had unknowingly lost my student deferment (S-2). I was now classified 1-A (Available for Military Service) by my local draft board. (Figure 1)

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Figure 1. Draft Card

Two more weeks passed before finally hearing back from Mother. The large envelope contained not only the first letter from Uncle Sam, but another as well. My heart pounded as I opened the first official letter. The first letter had been dated August 19, 1966 and began, You are hereby directed to present yourself for Armed Forces Physical Examination… (Figure 2). By the time I broke the seal on the next envelope, panic was reverberating throughout my entire body. The second letter read greetings from Uncle Sam and continued, You are delinquent in reporting for your Armed Forces Physical Examination! I could not believe what I had just read on the pages in my hand. Seemingly overnight, I ceased to exist in my carefree world and became a conscript in Uncle Sam’s military.

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Figure 2. Letter from my Local Draft Board

Responding to a sense of urgency, I made a quick radio transmission to the ranger station requesting to be transported from my post back to civilization and access to a telephone as soon as possible. The following day, I made a call from the Ranger Station to the draft board back home. After explaining my situation, I was instructed to expect a letter referring me to a draft board near my location in Idaho. Within a week, I received a letter to report to the Clearwater County Local Board in Orofino, Idaho for further instructions. As soon as possible, I presented myself to the appropriate officials in Orofino and signed in.

On September 26, 1966, I boarded a bus early in the morning with about a dozen other young men from the local area bound for Spokane, Washington. We spent most of the day undergoing the complete physical examination mandated for anyone subject to military service. Near the end of the day, we were required to fill out and sign several forms. One form asked for a preference of military branch, indicating most preferred to least preferred. I selected Air Force as my first choice, Navy as my second choice, Coast Guard as my third choice, Army as my fourth, and Marines as my last choice. At that point, I was imagining how I would look all dressed up in Air Force blues. Little did I know that Uncle Sam would place his conscripts among the military ranks where he most needed them, giving no consideration whatsoever to preference for service!

Despite all the turmoil of knowing that I now tentatively belonged to Uncle Sam, I did get to participate in my first ever Idaho Big Game Hunting. I purchased my first hunting rifle, a Winchester Model 70 30-06, and purchased the necessary hunting licenses. With the help of friends from the local area, I was able to bag a beautiful mule deer buck. That first hunt in the great northwest was an experience that I would cherish the rest of my life.

Into the month of October, I was still on the trail of that all-important elusive trophy bull elk. Our paths never crossed, however; and I would not get to experience the thrill of having my crosshairs on such a prized animal. Snows were getting deeper in the high country, making it even more difficult to locate animals in their domain; so I decided reluctantly to pack up, head back to Mississippi, and ready myself for my fated service in the military.

On October 20, 1966, I was deemed physically able to serve in the military, according to US Government Form DD 62, Statement of Acceptability. My days were numbered as an ordinary American citizen.

As if I was not embroiled in enough stress, more was yet to come. The trip back to Mississippi was a never-ending sequence of devastating events. My MGA had one mechanical difficulty after another all across the country from Idaho.

As I was about to head out on the 2000-mile return trip, the brake master cylinder went out on my MGA. The nearest repair place was Boise, Idaho, some 250 miles south along the route home. I decided to drive to Boise without brakes, using gears and the emergency brake to stop. The trip was, to say the least, challenging. However, I successfully made the trip and had the repairs done, then continued my journey.

After crossing the Rocky Mountains, my MGA began to lose engine power and barely make it to the town of Dumas, Colorado, where I stopped at a small father-son garage to try and get more repairs done. I booked myself a room at a nearby boarding house, while my car was being checked out and hopefully repaired. The next day, I was told that the engine head had a crack in it and would need to be replaced. The garage owner told me that they could have a new head shipped up by Greyhound Bus Line from Amarillo, Texas the following day and that they could have me on my way by late the next afternoon.

The following day the part arrived as promised, but it was the wrong part. I would have to wait another day for the right part. So, there I was, spending what money I had saved from my summer employment on room and board.

On the third day, the right part arrived; and it was near midnight before my MGA was ready to drive. I was so eager to hit the road that I decided not to remain in Dumas another night, but head south for Amarillo. I had traveled about half the 55 miles to Amarillo, when the oil light came on. After checking under the hood to make sure the oil lever was fine, I continued on my way. About five miles farther down the highway, the motor locked up completely. I coasted over to the shoulder of the roadway and waited for daylight to arrive. I decided to hide my hunting rifle beneath my car and hitch-hike into Amarillo and have a tow-truck bring my car into a repair garage. By late afternoon, my car was at a foreign car dealership-garage, where they inspected the engine to determine the problem. It was determined that the repair garage back in Dumas had not sufficiently tightened the oil pump bolts. As a result, the oil pump came loose, got caught in the crankshaft, and had destroyed the lower block unit.

With the cost of the previous repairs and the extra expense for food and motel rooms, I was totally out of money by that time. Paying for this round of repairs was definitely out of the question. I was forced to borrow money for a bus ticket just to get back home. Thankfully, a relative agreed to drive me back to Amarillo and tow my MGA back to Mississippi. It was the worst of times…

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Figure 3. Induction Letter from my Local Draft Board

Drafted!

November turned into December, and still I had received no word from my draft board. I counted the days with no news as a blessing, yet not knowing how I would react when that fateful day of departure would end my life as I knew it. Fate was delivered in the form of a letter on December 17, 1966. (Figure 3) The notice began, You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States... I was ordered to report to my local draft board in Grenada, Mississippi on January 17, 1967 at 9:00 a.m. It was the season of despair…

Rumors had been circling like mosquitoes in a swamp concerning the numbers of young men being drafted into military service at the time. Our country’s involvement in the Vietnam conflict had escalated over time from an advisory capacity to one of direct commitment of U.S. troops. On March 8, 1965, Present Lyndon B. Johnson sent 3,500 U.S. Marines to South Vietnam to aid in the ever-increasing threat of communism spreading in Southeast Asia. These Marines were the very first U.S. troops to set foot on Vietnamese soil, but they would by no means be the last. I had turned 21 years old three months after President Johnson announced on July 28, 1965 that draft inductions would increase from 17,000 to 35,000 per month due to the escalation of the war in Vietnam. At that time, I was enrolled as a student at the University of Alabama with a II-S draft classification—Registrant deferred because of activity in study, and Vietnam being the farthest thing in the mind.

I kept my student status until October 1, 1966, when Uncle Sam finally figured out my ruse by staying in Idaho to hunt. I instantly was flipped to 1-A status, Available for Military Service. My foolish decision to yield to my desire to hunt in the northwest would ultimately cost me two years of my life doing Uncle Sam’s bidding.

On a cold, damp January 17 morning, my brother-in-law arrived at my rural home in Carroll County, Mississippi to drive me to the nearby town of Granada, where I was to report to the Clerk of my local Selective Service Board for forwarding to the Armed Forces Induction Station in Jackson, Mississippi. After saying my goodbyes to family, we traveled the rutted dirt driveway onto the three-mile graveled road that connected my home to the main paved highway.

Silence dominated the forty-minute drive to the town of Grenada. Melancholy permeated my feelings as I watched the familiar landscape pass by. I was consumed with thoughts of family, friends, and the uncertainty of my own future. As I stared out across the bleak, harvested cotton fields before me, I knew that my world was about to change forever. So it would be for thousands of other young men across our country that were entering military service. This same scenario was occurring many times, from all socioeconomic levels, throughout all ethnic and religious areas, and in large cities, as well as small rural towns.

I was the first to arrive at the local board office in Grenada. The clerk checked my name off on a list of the names of those who had been ordered to report that day. After some small talk, I shook my brother-in-law’s hand and said my goodbyes. Shortly thereafter, two black men arrived and had their names checked off the list. After all was said and done, I was designated as the leader of our group of three registrants from Local Board 23 enroute to the induction station in Jackson, Mississippi. I was in charge of making sure that all went as expected with our group until we were delivered to the induction station.

Along with this unexpected and sudden elevation of leadership, I was handed a large brown envelope containing each of our files. Afterward, we were escorted to the Grenada bus terminal, where we boarded a Trailways bus for the 1 ½-hour trip to our state capital. We arrived at our destination around 3:00 p.m. that afternoon and were met by a uniformed person from the induction center. I immediately handed over the packet I was carrying from our local board, then we were taken across the street to a restaurant. After our meal, we were taken to the induction center and signed in, as well as given instructions as to where we would stay, where we would take our meals, and when we were to report back to the induction center. We also were instructed to stay together, eat together, and report back together as a group.

The next morning—January 18—we set about filling out various forms and learned which branch of service we had been assigned to. I was not surprised to learn that I had been assigned to the Army; because by that time, I knew that the majority of draftees shared the same destination.

All Army recruits during the Vietnam Era, whether volunteer or conscript, were sent to one of many training camps in the U.S., depending on their state of residence when inducted. Those from the northeastern, eastern, and southeastern states were sent primarily to Fort Dix, New Jersey; Fort Gordon or Fort Benning, Georgia; Fort Campbell, Kentucky; Fort Jackson, South Carolina; or Fort Polk, Louisiana. Those recruits residing in the midsection of the U.S. most likely reported to Fort Knox, Kentucky or Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. If a recruit was from the upper west or southwest, he was usually assigned to Ford Ord, California. For those residing in the northwest and Alaska, their duty station became Fort Lewis, Washington.

Following protocol, we all expected to be sent to Fort Polk, Louisiana for our basic army training. Fort Polk was the last place a recruit wanted to go for basic training. From the stories we had heard, if the drill sergeants there did not do you in, then the mosquitoes, snakes, and alligators would definitely finish the job! After all the exaggerated stories had circled through our group, we were all considering AWOL, even before being sworn in.

On the morning of January 19, 1967, we were issued a Serial Number and formally sworn in for military service. We all gathered in a room before the U.S. flag, as well as other significant military flags. Shortly thereafter, the commanding officer of the induction center, Captain R. W. Everett, entered the room and asked us to stand, raise our right hand, and repeat after him these words:

I, (Recruit’s Name), do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice—So help me God.

Captain Everett then said to us, Men, you are about to take a journey to become United States soldiers. Take pride in becoming a soldier and be the best you can. Make your country and your family proud of you. When we say, ‘serve her (United States of America) faithfully against all enemies,’ we are speaking not only of combat, but also of the peacetime effort to maintain security against those forces which, through illegal means, seek to undermine our institutions of government.

Having taken the oath, my status instantly changed from that of a civilian to that of a soldier (recruit). I was now officially the property of Uncle Sam—a genuine GI.

A Reprieve

Following the administration of the oath, we were all instructed to form a single line to receive our official orders. Once our line of recruits was formed, the sergeant in charge came into the room with a handful of papers and began handing each of us a set of orders containing a list of names, the location to report to for basic training, and the specific date/time to report. After a quick glance at my orders, I soon learned that I had definitely been assigned to Fort Polk, Louisiana—the hell hole!

We were then instructed to move outside in single file to waiting buses that would take us to our assigned facility. As the line moved in an orderly fashion from the room, a young officer suddenly appeared and extended his arm between two men in the line in front of me. As he did so, he shouted, The recruits from this man back to the end of the line are to be sent to Fort Campbell Kentucky!

The cutoff point indicated by the officer happened to be only two men in front of me. It took a few seconds for my brain to register exactly what had just happened, but I soon realized that I had been given an instant reprieve from what I believed to have been a death sentence at Fort Polk. As the last of those poor Fort Polk recruits filed out of the room, I breathed a sigh of relief as the rest of us were seated to await new orders. Assigned to U.S. Army Reception Station, Fort Campbell, Kentucky. At that point, I realized that Kentucky would still keep me in the South, but I had no idea where this place called Fort Campbell was. I would soon find out that fate had placed my feet firmly on the path to the home of the famed Screaming Eagles of the 101st Airborne. My Rendezvous With Destiny had begun.

Our group of fortunate recruits was then loaded onto a bus for the trip to the Jackson Municipal Airport. Once at the airport, we were each given an airline ticket to our destination. We would fly from Jackson to Memphis, Tennessee, then on to Nashville, Tennessee via a DC-10 Delta Airlines passenger plane. The final leg of our trip would be by DC-9 on Ozark Airlines to Clarksville, Tennessee. At each stop enroute, the weather turned increasingly colder. By the time we deplaned at Clarksville, the landscape was covered in snow. Needless to say, I was not prepared for the drastic change in temperature; and my light wool sweater provided little warmth.

At the airport in Clarksville, we were met by a soldier in army fatigues and escorted to a green military bus. Our bus load of less than happy campers was soon moving on along the fourteen-mile trip to our final destination at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. As the bus pulled up to the guarded entrance of the facility, we read the words on the large sign displayed between two red, brick square columns that identified our new home for the next eight-weeks. (Photo 2) The sign before us read, U. S. Army—Welcome to Fort Campbell, Kentucky—Home of the 101st Airborne Division. Campbell Airfield – U. S. Army Training Center – U. S. Army Hospital. Two emblems were affixed to the sign as well, that of the 18th Airborne Corps and one of an eagle head crowned with the word Airborne. That was my first glimpse of the Screaming Eagle of WW II fame. I would learn much about this coveted icon in the weeks and months ahead, eventually calling it my own!

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Photo 2. Entrance Gate at Fort Campbell, Kentucky

After leaving the entrance gate (Photo 3), our bus proceeded on to a large parking lot and came to a stop next to a large white building that was surrounded by endless rows of long, two-story wooden buildings. The sign in front of the building where we stopped indicated that we were at U.S. Army Training Center Headquarters. (Photo 4) As our eyes scanned our surroundings, a seven-foot Neanderthal Man dressed in starched khaki fatigues and donned with a Smoky Bear hat stepped on board our bus and instantly started yelling at the top of his lungs, Okay, Scumbags, off the bus and line up outside! Now! Now Move Out! Move Out! From this point on, all of us would be nothing more than cattle being squeezed through a chute—too scared to ask the why concerning anything and smart enough not to challenge the authority surrounding us.

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Photo 3. Reception Station

After assembling outside the bus, the intimidating Neanderthal man soon identified himself as our drill sergeant. He commenced to scream an ear-piercing volume of directions and information, which passed right through our auditory senses without registering or penetrating our complete state of shock. After a few seconds, reality returned; and we were told to form up into two columns. In this formation, we were escorted into the reception facility, where we filled out several forms, including a small 3x5-inch post card that we personally addressed to our parents or next of kin. (Figure 4)

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Photo 4. Ft. Campbell Training Center Headquarters Building

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Figure 4. The 3x5-inch post card

That little piece of communication would break the link between life as we knew it and the military life ahead of us. Via this notice, our parents knew that we had reached our destination and that the U.S, Army would now be our caretakers. No sorrow, no sympathy, no letters. You will hear from your loved one when we, U.S. Army, says so! We were now the Property of the U.S. Government and would soon learn the military way of doing things— Hurry Up and Wait, a time-tested exercise in which we learned to hurry up with the task at hand, then waited for our next instruction. One of the first drastic changes noticed by all of us was the fact that all communication in the military came in the form of orders. Strict discipline from parents or elders was one thing, but discipline in the military had its own set of rules.

Once the paperwork was completed, we were ushered over to a nearby mess hall (eating establishment in military terminology) for a long-overdue meal. Most of us had not eaten since early that morning before leaving Jackson, Mississippi. After finishing our meal, we were herded back to the reception building and told to be seated and await further instructions. Several drill sergeants eventually came in to gather us up, and we soon found ourselves meandering through dark corridors between the many cookie cutter buildings in the area. Our destination was a small supply room, where a large, foul-mouthed sergeant issued each of us the usual military bed linens as we passed by the counter where he was stationed.

Carrying our bundle of two sheets, a pillow, a pillowcase, and one wool blanket, we were led to one of the nearby, empty two-story wooden buildings. Inside what we would learn to call the barracks (sleeping facilities in military terminology), we were told to select a sleeping cot and proceed to make up our bunk (bed in military terminology). After everyone had completed the process, the drill sergeants standing by watching our every move ordered us to strip our bunks, move upstairs, repeat the process, then turn in for the night. We completed the orders eagerly, looking forward to sleep after our long, tiring day.

By the time I had been drafted into military service, our country was rapidly becoming a nation divided concerning our involvement in the Vietnam War. Those Americans supporting our efforts in Vietnam believed that the war in Indochina was moral and necessary to defeat the spread of Communism in that part of the world. On the other hand, those opposing the war believed that the Vietnam conflict should not involve the sacrifice of our Nation’s blood and treasure, simply because the war did not directly affect our national security or interests. I was drafted in 1966, along with 382,010 young American men—the highest number of draftees for any year of the Vietnam War according to induction statistics of the U.S. Selective Service System. Many Americans believed that the Vietnam War was becoming quite costly in young lives and increased taxes to support the war effort. In response, massive protests in opposition to the war took place throughout our country during this time. (Photo 5)

A Soldier’s Diary

The idea of keeping a personal diary prior to my military service never seemed necessary; but due to the influence of my brother-in-law, Jake, I was convinced to document my two years of service in the Army.

While still in high school, I would spend the majority of my weekends with Jake and my sister, Ann. I have found memories of Jake sitting in his favorite chair in the living room and reading to me from his personal diary covering his service during World War II. He had flown P-51 Mustangs in the South pacific with the Army Air Force. After reading a particular day’s diary entry, Jake would often elaborate on his mission, as he reminisced about incidents, places, and enemy contacts. I was, of course, mesmerized by all of his war stories.

Once I had been drafted into military service, Jake impress on me the importance of keeping a daily dairy. Knowing that I was destined for Vietnam and the ongoing war there, he purchased a large map of Vietnam and plotted latitude/longitude coordinates on the map so that he would follow my whereabouts after I arrived in South Vietnam. Jake instructed me to use these coordinates as codes in my letters to him. That way, he would be able to follow where my unit was operating.

By the time I had been deployed to South Vietnam, the map plotting exercise was dropped, especially since there was no indication that my letters mailed back home would be censored. The need for codes would not be necessary. I did, however, begin my daily diary entries in earnest once I became the Battalion PIO. My position and duties as PIO required detailed note-taking concerning photos and articles written for publication. This requirement made me ore dedicated in maintaining my personal daily diary.

Fifty years beyond Vietnam, my personal diary has become one of my most cherished possessions. Its well-worn pages still provide facts and dates that I would otherwise have forgotten. My Vietnam dairy has been the basis for my books and articles about my experiences during the war and will be passed on to my children and grandchildren as a lasting, truthful bit of history for future generations.

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Photo 5. Vietnam War Protesters

Basic Combat Training

Fort Campbell, Kentucky

January 20 - March 24

The Army’s primary purpose of Basic Combat Training is to transform ordinary citizens into soldiers. This process includes learning discipline, self-confidence, Army standards, and the importance of teamwork. U.S. Army training for men during the Vietnam War Era consisted of eight weeks of intense instruction commonly referred to as boot camp, during which the recruit was taught the basics of being an American soldier. During these grueling, seemingly endless weeks, the typical recruit was reduced humbly into a paltry pile of putty, then carefully reshaped to fit the mold of America’s finest fighting force. He would learn to respect authority, how to properly