The Intransigent Companion

By Cyril R. Schroemges

The Intransigent Companion is an evocative and deeply personal narrative that delves into the harrowing experiences of a Vietnam War veteran. The book is a poignant exploration of a tumultuous era in history, offering readers a window into the heart and soul of a soldier who witnessed the crucible of war firsthand.

About the Author
Cyril R. Schroemges is a Vietnam War veteran with a powerful story to tell. After a 21-year military career, where he retired as a senior Non-Commissioned Officer, Cyril transitioned to a successful 20-year stint in military equipment sales. Now, in retirement and residing in Pleasant Grove, Utah, he's a proud Grand-Pa, cherishing the love of his family and thanking the Lord every day for life's blessings. Cyril's memoir provides a unique perspective on the Vietnam War and a life well-lived.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: May 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891274198

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The contents of this work, including, but not limited to, the accuracy of events, people, and places depicted; opinions expressed; permission to use previously published materials included; and any advice given or actions advocated are solely the responsibility of the author, who assumes all liability for said work and indemnifies the publisher against any claims stemming from publication of the work.

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2024 by Cyril R. Schroemges

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, downloaded, distributed, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, including photocopying and recording, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Foreword

Several years after leaving Vietnam, memories of that war were still often on my mind. I decided to write about the year I had spent there, hoping that it would have a therapeutic effect on me. I could not remember the names of all the guys I served with, and even if I did, finding them and getting permission to use their names in my story was something that I couldn’t even imagine myself being able to do. I decided to just change everyone’s name and adopted the name of Rob Shirm for myself. I tell the story from a third-person point of view and want to emphasize the respect I have for all those brave men and women who served there. They conquered their fears and carried out their duties like the heroes they were.

Cyril R. Schroemges

ONE

South Vietnam, October 1965, and the war against the Communist-backed Viet Cong was picking up momentum. Although the United States had been involved in this country for quite some time, this was the first year that combat units were deployed to Vietnam. Rob Shirm sat in an aisle seat of the chartered Pan Am jet, whose every seat was occupied by an American soldier. They were replacement troops for those combat units’ casualties. The chartered civilian plane attested to the inchoate state of this war, as later only military aircraft would be used to transport troops and equipment in and out of the country.

Rob was twenty-six years old, sergeant E-5, more commonly referred to as a buck sergeant in the Army. He was of average height and though not big, his body was muscular and strong. He had cut his straight dark brown hair short, and it lay flat on his skull, a mesh curling to the right on his forehead. He had greenish brown eyes and a images_image26587_Copy89.jpg slightly crooked nose, which the doctor had a hard time setting straight after the second time he had it broken in a brawl. Not much of a talker, he was nevertheless a friendly kind of guy, unless aroused. When that happened, most of the people who knew him just got out of the way. He went into a fight with all the energy and heart his body could muster, and the outcome was usually in his favor.

He had left home when he was fifteen years old, caught a ride to California with some friends, and landed a job as a messenger delivery boy in Downtown Los Angeles. He soon learned that a baby-faced fifteen-year-old boy needed to know how to defend himself if he was to survive.

At eighteen years of age, he entered the Army, served part of his tour in Germany, and was honorably discharged in Fort Lewis, Washington, after three years of service. He worked on a fishing boat for one season, then in the logging camps above Shelton, Washington. Finally, a year and a half after leaving the service, he returned to it, deciding that this time he would stay until he had at least twenty years in it. He liked the Army, and after being promoted to Non-Commissioned Officer in the Cavalry he enjoyed it even more. Again, he was assigned to Germany. This time, to serve in the Black Horse Regiment, the Eleventh Armored Cavalry. His Troop Commander had often asked him to submit papers requesting appointment to the Officer’s Candidate School, but he had always found an excuse not to do so. He didn’t feel that the role of Officer and Gentleman would suit him. Besides, he was convinced that it was the good, knowledgeable NCOs who ran the Army who really made things happen. Officers could do the planning, give the orders, but without good NCOs all those plans would fail.

Now he was in Vietnam, and he thought that this was what a soldier was really being paid for. All the training, learning how to read a map and compass, learning how to shoot, adjust artillery fire, maneuver in combat, and many other skills, this was what the American taxpayer paid for. So that when it came time to defend what our country believed in, the soldiers could go out and hopefully do a good job.

One thing he never could understand, though, was why, as a soldier, he had to pay taxes. He hadn’t finished high school, but after entering the Army the first time he passed all the tests required to obtain a GED. As a matter of fact, his IQ was above average, so he figured that he had learned a few things out on the streets too. But now this tax thing baffled him. The American taxpayer paid his wages. He was an American taxpayer. He paid taxes. What the hell, he was contributing to his own pay, from the money he paid in taxes...so that he could pay, his pay? That’s confusing, he thought. One should not spend too much time thinking about that.

The first thing that hit him about Vietnam, Saigon in particular, was the humidity.

Hot? Yes, it was. But the humidity was heavy stuff. He stepped out of the cool interior of the Pan Am jet, and it was like someone had dropped a warm, heavy cloak on his shoulders. The side of the airfield where he stood with the new arrivals had a couple of one-story buildings, the control tower, and two storage sheds. Several NCOs were there to greet them, and they were instructed to get onto three blue Air Force buses, which were parked next to the buildings.

As Rob walked to one of the buses, a duffel bag on his shoulder, he looked across the airfield. He could see a tall wire fence, probably surrounding this entire base, he thought. There were guard towers every fifty meters or so and some palm trees on the other side of the fence. The shimmering heat and dense humidity made it difficult to distinguish objects clearly that far away.

The windows of the bus were covered with thick wire mesh to prevent someone from throwing a grenade through them. Two MP jeeps escorted the three buses, one in front, one in back, as they drove through the outskirts of Saigon toward Camp Alpha. Once there, the new arrivals would be assigned to units scattered throughout South Vietnam. A young specialist fourth class (Sp4) was sitting next to Rob. He said, Just before we left the States, I heard some senator talking on television. He said that this war would be over in less than a year. Shit! We just got too much firepower for these fucking Cong. We ought to kick their ass in no time. What do you think, Sarge?  Rob just grunted and looked through the wires in the window. They were on a hardpacked dirt road, the buses kicking up a cloud of dust as they rolled along. Both sides of the road were lined with shacks made of cardboard and tin. A throng of people moved in both directions, some on bicycles, others pushing two-wheeled carts, and still others balancing long poles on one shoulder with a loaded basket on each end. Many wore the conical straw hats and black pajamas, which would become so familiar to Rob before he left this country. A lot of poverty and hardship out there, Rob thought. Not good for the stability of a government.

Camp Alpha, a compound with rows of tents, surrounded by double-chain-link fences topped with barbwire and illuminated at regular intervals by strong spotlights, was the first stop for most American soldiers arriving in Vietnam at the time. Country briefings were given, covering the dos and don’ts to be observed while in the warzone. Normally, a person was there for only three or four days before being assigned to a unit somewhere in the country. Rob, a fluent French speaker, had been sent to Vietnam as an interpreter, but obviously they weren’t in great demand because after five days of sitting around the camp, someone up top decided that he was needed in the First Air Cavalry Division in the Central Highlands.

On his sixth day in country, along with eleven other men picked to go to the 1st Air Cav, Rob boarded one of the blue buses and they were driven back to Ton Se Nut airport. They boarded a twin-engine aircraft, which Rob learned was called a Caribou. Someone said that the Caribou was an extremely reliable aircraft because even if both engines were shot up, the plane could still glide to a safe landing.

I hope that they don’t need to prove that to me, Rob thought. I don’t relish the thought of going down in some plane with both engines shot up.

The flight turned out to be routine, however, until the plane approached the An Khe airstrip. Flying along at about ten thousand feet, the aircraft suddenly took a nosedive toward the ground. All the newbies on board figured that this was it! They were going to smash into the earth, and none of them had even gone into combat yet. When it seemed certain that they would crash, the plane levelled out and moments later the wheels touched the ground. Engines roared, the light craft bounced a few times, and the pilot was applying the brakes hard. After the nosedive, the landing was just as scary. Rob took a couple of good, hard swallows to get his stomach back down to where it belonged and thought that he’d better check his shorts as soon as he had a chance.

Jesus Christ! What in the fuck was that? one of the other NCOs on the flight asked the crew chief when they rolled to a stop.

Obviously amused by everyone’s discomfort, the crew chief answered, "We call that a combat landing. Instead of making a gradual descent and coming in on a low final approach, the pilot waits until he’s almost over the landing strip, then makes a dive at it.

Keeps Charlie from shooting at us as we come in."

Yeah, that’s real cool, man! I’ll be scrapin’ shit off my leg for the rest of the afternoon. the NCO said angrily.

The crew chief laughed, and Rob chuckled to himself. At least I wasn’t the only one, he thought.

A truck, with driver and one NCO in charge, was waiting for them as they dismounted the aircraft. Looking around at the landing strip, Rob could see why the landing had seemed a bit rough. The strip was made of perforated steel plank, commonly known as PSP. The combat engineers would level out the required length of ground, lay PSP on it, and presto! A new landing strip had been carved out of the jungle. The PSP prevented airplanes from sinking into muddy ground or breaking off their landing gear when they landed. Later, Rob would see the division’s combat engineers create landing strips large enough to accommodate four-engine C-130 aircraft, in a matter of just a few hours.

Fantastic, he thought.

The truck drove by the village of An Khe, along a hardpacked dirt road, toward the division’s base camp. Rob could see combat positions manned by American troops all along the road, and he knew they were in base camp when they passed the main gate, manned by MPs. At the headquarters, they were met by a senior NCO in charge of assigning each one further into the division’s line units. He explained that since the division’s arrival at An Khe two months before, circumstances had kept everyone busy setting up base camp and the unit was not yet prepared to receive replacements. In-briefings into the division would be done at their respective units.

They went to the mess tent, where they ate a meal and drank coffee. The sides of the tent were rolled up, and they could see most of the camp from where they sat. Combat engineers were at work in a long, wide field, where many helicopters were parked. On the far side of the field he could see a row of tents, where men worked on some of the helicopters, and he knew that those would be maintenance tents. Surrounding this large bare area were tall trees and, in places, thick undergrowth. Close in were mostly low hills with larger mountains in the distance. The division headquarters sat at the base of one of the taller hills in the camp.

Rob spoke to their escort NCO. What’s the engineers doing out there, building an airstrip?

Yeah, he answered. Like the Sarge told you, we’ve only been here about two months, and it’s been a lot of work just trying to get settled in.

Where’s all the line units? Rob asked.

They circle this entire field. In the woods, all the way around. Each battalion has its own sector. That road down there goes all the way around the field, and every couple of hundred meters takes you to another battalion area, he said, pointing to a road in front of the headquarters.

The senior NCO joined them in the mess tent. It had only taken him a couple of hours to assign each one of them and to cut their orders. These he passed out to them now. Rob was assigned to the division’s Reconnaissance Squadron, which suited him fine. He was a scout and would continue to work in his field.

When the truck stopped in front of the Recon Squadron’s area, their escort came to the rear of the truck.

This one’s yours, buddy, he said, looking up at Rob, Good luck.

Thanks, see you around. Rob said, jumping down and throwing his duffel bag over his shoulder.

He walked into the wooded area on a dirt road leading through the center of the squadron’s sector. This time of year was the beginning of the monsoon season here in the Central Highlands, and the road was still muddy from the last rainfall. Not many people were around, and he figured that the entire unit was probably out on operations. He stopped at a mess tent to ask directions to D Troop, the unit where he was being assigned.

See that outer row of tents up there, Sarge? one of the cooks pointed with a large spoon in his hands, the first tent in the row is D Troop’s orderly room. Should be somebody in there.

Rob thanked him and took the muddy path leading to the tent.

He pushed the mosquito netting aside that hung in the door and stepped into the somber, musty-smelling interior of the tent. A staff sergeant and an Sp/4 were working at two wooden folding tables.

The Sp/4 looked up and asked, Yeah, what can we do for you, Sarge?

Got some orders assigning me to D Troop of this squadron, Rob answered, holding his orders up in his right hand.

The staff sergeant looked up too now, and the Sp/4 exclaimed, Hey, man! You’ve got the honor of being the first replacement in this troop! Bee welcome!

The staff sergeant stood up and shook Rob’s hand. I’m Sergeant Crowlin, the troop supply sergeant, he said, and motioned to the other man, and this is Jeraldson, our admin clerk. Throw your duffle bag on those boards over there and have a seat. He indicated a folding chair near his table.

There were some empty 105mm-ammunition crates turned upside down next to the tent’s wall, and Rob put his duffle down on one of them, then returned and sat at Crowlin’s table.

Crowlin took a tin cup and filled it with coffee from a steel thermos on the table next to him. He handed it to Rob.

How many people on the plane with you? he asked Rob images_image36589_Copy90.jpg

Twelve of us, Rob replied. I was the only one assigned to this squadron, though.

Jesus Christ! Crowlin said. We lose a bunch of people, and they send us twelve replacements. Big fucking deal.

Well, there was all kinds of people arriving at Camp Alpha every day while I was there, Rob said. I imagine that a lot of them will be assigned to the Cav when they get processed.

Maybe so, Crowlin said. It just seems that Saigon is moving a little slow.

The division had been here for over two months now, Crowlin went on to explain. Many of the units had arrived by ship, making a beach landing in Qui Nhon. Crowlin had come by air with the advance party and had now completed nearly half of his tour.

I’m one of the old-timers here, he said, and I’ll be one of the first ones to rotate out of ’Nam.

Jeraldson got up, announcing that he was making a run to squadron headquarters.

The troop had a couple of motor scooters they used to get around on.

We ought to celebrate our first replacement’s arrival, he said. I’ll run down to the village and see if I can find us something to drink. Out the door he went, and Rob heard him crank up the scooter and drive down the trail to headquarters.

Isn’t it dangerous to drive that thing down to the village? he asked Crowlin.

Naw, Crowlin replied. The One-Oh-First was the first unit in here. They secured the entire area until we got set up, then they took the outer perimeter security. They’ve got a couple of platoons guarding the road to the village, and they’re set up all around town itself so it’s pretty secure. He poured more coffee for them, and they continued talking. Rob was eager to know everything about his new unit, its mission, and what to expect while here. Crowlin liked to talk and was proud of the fact that he had been one of the first troopers to arrive in An Khe. The One-Oh-First he talked about was a brigade of the 101st Airborne Division. They were the first U.S. combat unit to enter the Central Highlands of Vietnam. As a member of the 1st Air Cav’s advance party, Crowlin had come in right behind the 101st and knew everything that went on in this base camp. The village of An Khe was just a few kilometers from the division’s base camp main gate, and soon after the American troops arrived a couple of entrepreneurial Vietnamese set up several bars and general stores in the village. These offered Vietnamese beer, which featured a tiger on the bottle label and was quickly named Tiger Piss by the GIs. There was a cheap whiskey, imported from Japan, and a few ladies who served the beer in the bar, and their bodies in the back rooms of the bars. This being the only place where an entire division’s troops could go for refreshments and amusement, Rob quickly figured out that the Vietnamese entrepreneurs were making a killing. Just got to be in the right place at the right time, he told himself.

Much of the division’s time and energy, their first month in the country, went toward building a base camp. Almost every man in the outfit got his turn at chopping away at grass, brush, and smaller trees with a machete. The larger trees succumbed to power saws. When the job was done, a strip approximately one hundred meters wide, completely bare of vegetation, encircled the entire base camp. They called the strip the Green Line. Crowlin told stimulating stories of accidents, mishaps, and blunders committed by the troopers as they became acquainted with their new surroundings.

As soon as the task of securing base camp was completed, the units started going out on combat missions. D Troop was presently east of the An Khe pass, providing cover for the supply convoys, which had to drive the division’s supplies up from the port of Qui Nhon. Their second week out they encountered a Viet Cong patrol and suffered their first casualties: two men killed in action (KIA) and three wounded in action (WIA).

Crowlin kept talking as he got up from his chair and walked to the far corner of the large tent. He unlocked one of the gun racks standing there and took out an M-16 rifle. Moving on to the opposite corner, he rummaged around in some crates of supplies and brought everything back to the table.

"Ever fire