Combat Swimmer (16 page)

I had other ideas. My first priority was to get out of the hospital to spend time with my wife, son, and daughter, whom I had not yet seen.

The doctors operated on my wrist the first day, checking the work that had been done in Saigon and resetting the bones. Even in a cast, my wrist still hurt like hell. I'd taken myself off pain relievers stronger than aspirin after I found myself levitating three feet off the bed after taking a codeine pill in the hospital in Saigon. Aspirin was all I was taking in Portsmouth.

Becky had been to visit me every day and stayed well past normal visiting hours. On my third day there, I called and told her I was leaving for the weekend and to bring me some clothes. When she arrived, I told the duty nurse I was going to the cafeteria. I left the ward, found the nearest head, went in, changed into the clothes Becky had brought, put my hospital pajamas and robe in Becky's handbag, and left.

Sunday evening the phone rang. It was the nurse on my ward, letting me know I'd better be back by Tuesday because that's when my doctor was due. She must have noticed the look in my eye when I told her I was going to the cafeteria—most likely I wasn't the first to pull that maneuver. At any rate, she covered for me, and I made sure I was back early Tuesday morning to cover for her.

That week I had another operation, in which the surgeons sewed the tendons of my middle two fingers to those of the forefinger and little finger. This gave me two tendons to control all the fingers on my left hand. They also shortened the tendons so I'd have better control of my fingers. In addition, they fused the bones in my left wrist, which gave me about 30 degrees of upward motion but none downward—the best they could do to allow me maximum strength in the joint. Then the doctor assigned me to therapy. I lasted for two sessions, then convinced the therapist I could do the work by myself. I promised to come back once a week so she could check my progress.

All I really wanted to do was get back to the Team and get to work. I had the use of only one arm, but I figured I could train the platoons going over. Only a few of us had seen any fighting, and there are no better trainers than those who have been in combat. So I returned to work full-time.

My doctor, who didn't happen to know I was back at work, was considering me for medical retirement. At my next visit he gave me what he thought was the good news. I told him I didn't want out—an attitude the medical folks weren't used to. I was the first SEAL officer they had treated for combat wounds; all the others—mostly Marines—wanted out as soon as possible. I let him know that not only would I fight any medical discharge, I wanted out of the hospital right away so I could get back to the Team “officially.” He said he'd do what he could about the medical board, but until they made a decision, I would be assigned to the hospital. Unofficially, I could return to the Team—for paperwork only. I promised.

I convinced Bill Early to put me in charge of predeployment training. Over the next six months I also took whatever officer jobs needed doing—executive officer, operations officer, you name it. All the healthy officers except Bill were either in Vietnam or getting ready to go. Bill wanted to go as the OIC of our three-platoon detachment, but we convinced him he was more important to the Team in Little Creek, making sure the money continued to flow.

 

In May 1968, SEAL Team Two had a change of command. The new CO, Ted Lyon, had spent a year in Da Nang on a staff that controlled PT boat operations. But he was completely different from Bill Early. Bill was an “operator,” and he worked twenty hours a day.

All of us in Little Creek were putting in long hours and loving it because the work was paying off. Bill had gotten us to Vietnam and made sure we had the best equipment and training. Our platoons were doing great, and it wasn't by chance—we worked very hard preparing them for combat. We had focused, realistic predeployment training that occasionally got people hurt but saved lives once the platoons got in-country.

When Ted took over, there seemed to be a shift in command emphasis. Ted seemed to be more of a staff officer. I didn't have the same confidence in him—not that that's unusual when a new boss comes on the job. One morning just after he took over, Ted gathered all the officers to give us his guidance. We all sat in his office in our UDT swim trunks and blue-and-gold shirts, the standard dress around the Team area. He was wearing his tropical white uniform.

Ted planned first and foremost to make us all good little naval officers—not that most of us didn't need some polishing. He told us he expected each of us to pay calls on him and his wife, Judy. Paying calls is an old Navy custom, and it does serve a useful function when there is a new CO. Ted and Judy were great people and everyone liked them. But in that command at that time, requiring us to call on them sent the wrong signal, at least to me. He also said he expected all of us to drop calling cards in the tray as we came through the door. And, “oh, by the way,” we'd better have our own swords. At first I thought he meant we had to pay the call in full dress uniform.

These were the wrong first things to say to a group of combat veterans and soon-to-be combat veterans. They implied that social life had precedence over training and operating. Being a young “gunslinger,” I didn't much care for Ted's priorities. I had to figure out how to get myself back to Vietnam.

A serendipitous opportunity arose. Someone had to relieve Jake Rhinebolt, already in his second tour as Detachment Alpha officer-in-charge. It had to be a lieutenant senior to the three platoon commanders. Dick Anderson, the 9th Platoon commander in Vinh Long, fit the bill, and I was the only officer with combat experience available to replace Dick. I jumped at the chance, and got out of Dodge in mid-May, eager to be back in action.

It was not a good year for the U.S. war effort in Vietnam. The Tet Offensive at the end of January 1968 showed that the Communists could penetrate everywhere in the country if they were willing to accept horrendous casualties. Throughout the Mekong Delta, Vietcong forces seized key Vietnamese government strongholds. In a few days of fierce fighting, U.S. forces dealt them enormous defeats throughout South Vietnam. But the Communists won a strategic victory. The American public was shocked by the ferocity of their attacks, which went to the heart of Saigon. Pressure mounted for us to get out of the war. In late March, President Johnson announced bombing restrictions in North Vietnam. By mid-May, U.S. and North Vietnamese delegates held their first peace talks in Paris.

After Tet, North Vietnamese regular units began appearing in the Mekong Delta, since Tet had virtually destroyed most of the Vietcong main force units. SEALs were mostly unaffected. We figured we'd just have more to shoot at as the NVA infiltrated our hunting grounds. The NVA did, though, bring more sophisticated weaponry than their southern cousins had been allowed to have. Otherwise, things were much as they had been when I left in June 1967.

 

T
he moment I stepped off the plane at Tan Son Nhut airport in Saigon, I knew I was back in the war zone. Vietnam was as hot and humid as I'd remembered. Bill Early, who was now the SEAL officer on the Naval Forces Vietnam staff, greeted me. It was good to see him. He told me he had some briefings lined up for me the next morning to bring me up-to-date on the tactical situation in the Mekong Delta. I told him I didn't need any staff briefings. All I needed was to get right down to the delta. Bill relented, and that afternoon I got on another airplane for Vinh Long.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Dave Purselle, my new assistant, met me as I stepped off the plane. A large guy—six feet four inches tall and 210 pounds—he'd played college football, was covered with hair everywhere but on the top of his head, and was one of the strongest men I've ever met. After a few beers he could become dangerous. We left immediately for the villa where the platoon lived. It was a good way from the river, and I asked Dave if that created any problems. He said no because the platoon wasn't operating that much anyway.

Even before leaving Little Creek I had been well aware of this platoon's frustration. In-country three months, they'd seen little action and had had no real successes. I'd sent word ahead that I wanted some missions ready when I got there. I planned to get the guys in the field as soon as possible to see what I had. Though I had put them through predeployment training, that wasn't the same as fighting with them. On the way to the villa, Dave told me he had set up an operation for the next night.

When we got to the villa, I saw one reason they hadn't spent much time in the field. The place was a palace compared with what we'd had in Binh Thuy. That night, in a club attached to the villa, they held a going-away party for Dick Anderson. They had a blast drinking his good-bye. I stayed in the background—it was Dick's party—but I spent a lot of time talking to the guys.

One of them was Chuck Newell, the leading petty officer. He'd been one of my instructors in UDT/SEAL basic training and had later served with me in UDT-22, so we were old friends. “What the hell are you doing back over here so soon?”

“My job.”

“You're already a hero. You got the Silver Star and a Purple Heart on the same op and a Bronze Star for all the other shit you did.”

“I'm no hero. I just want to get back in action because that's what I like. I'm lucky enough to be getting paid for it.”

This conversation told me the platoon was apprehensive about me: they knew about my first tour and knew that I wasn't going to let them sit around in the villa drinking beer. Getting in the field as soon as possible was definitely the best thing to do.

The next day, Dave Purselle gave me a brief on the operation for that night. Did I want him to run it, so I could see what they were doing without worrying about command functions? I told him no. I really wanted to see how the platoon would act under fire. Also, I wanted to see how
I'd
act under fire for the first time since I'd been shot. I wasn't really concerned, but I knew the platoon was worried about me because my left hand was still in a “mobility device” to help it recover from the wound.

The mission was simple. We were going to search a suspected VC hootch area and set an ambush on a canal that was supposedly getting heavy VC use. The place seemed like one I'd have picked for a platoon's first operation in-country, just off the main river on a narrow canal with good cover. To me this spoke volumes about the platoon's experience and confidence.

We inserted by boat, patrolled to the hootch area, where we found nothing, and moved on to the ambush site. After two hours there I began to think it was a bust. I could see torches moving about on the other side of the canal—but, as I explained to the guys, farmers out in the rice paddies were trying to jacklight frogs. The torches were not a sign of sinister doings by the VC. I decided to call it a night for the ambush and do some “practice patrolling” inland.

As we set off, we heard a sampan somewhere back up the canal, coming toward us. I moved the platoon back into the ambush position but told them not to fire until I did; I didn't want to kill some fisherman breaking curfew, even though we were in a free-fire zone.

As the sampan approached the river, I could see two people with weapons, hunkered down. I cut loose with my M-16. The two VC disintegrated under withering fire from the platoon—twelve SEALs on full automatic are a fearsome sight. We did such a good job that we sank the sampan before I could get them to cease fire. Two of my men jumped into the canal in an attempt to retrieve whatever they could, but there was nothing left to retrieve. We found punji stakes floating where the sampan had been, so I surmised the two VC had been on their way to build punji pits for unsuspecting American boys.

We had partly accomplished my objectives for the night. We hadn't been shot at, but at least we had done some killing and I had seen the platoon in action. More important, they had seen themselves in action. I later learned it was the first time they had killed anyone, and they were happy as hell to have had the chance. All in all, it was an okay night. I had seen some “procedural” things I didn't like, but those would be easy to correct. What I did like was the way these men reacted to the hit—they had been aggressive, and they seemed to like it. I felt much better. My hand hadn't bothered me, and it was great to be leading a group of SEALs in combat again.

One of the reasons the platoon had seen little action was that Vinh Long was not a target-rich environment. As it turned out, Dick Marcinko's platoon was about to leave Binh Thuy to be replaced by a SEAL One platoon. Hearing of this, I started politicking with Bill Early in Saigon. He convinced higher headquarters that U.S. interests in Vietnam would be best served if I were to move my platoon to Binh Thuy instead. I knew the Binh Thuy area, and I also knew it encompassed more turf than Vinh Long. It included all the area described by the Bassac River, the South China Sea, the Gulf of Thailand, and the Cambodian border. In other words, it was huge. And it contained a lot of bad guys.