Delta Force (10 page)

TWELVE

IN EARLY NOVEMBER
we were asked to support and do some reconnaissance work for the 1st Division, which was just coming into country. One time, after being on the ground all day working on a 1st Division operation, I was pulled off a chopper at Bien Hoa and told to call Saigon. I was bushed. I got on the phone, then I jumped into a jeep and took off for the hour-and-fifteen-minute drive to the city. I arrived at MACV headquarters having come right off a field operation. I was wearing my jungle costume and was filthy.

After I reported to Colonel Gregory, he showed me some aerial recon photos. “What does this look like to you, Major?”

“It looks to me, sir, like a road with a pile of gravel next to it.”

He showed me another photo.

I said, “That's a road with no gravel.”

Colonel Gregory agreed. “We want you, Major, to go up to Pleiku, find this road, and tell us why the VC is using gravel.” I became angry. I told him I didn't have a hundred DELTA teams: “I have only a handful and right now I'm in the middle of an operation. Damn it, don't you think it's sort of dumb to call me up here tonight. All you've got to do is pick up the phone, call II Corps and ask Colonel Mataxis to task the Special Forces right there in the area to do the job.”

All of a sudden I felt a hand come around my shoulder. I turned around and there stood Brig. Gen. William DePuy, MACV's ops officer. He was wearing a T-shirt, fatigues, and
jump boots. I had a lot of respect for this no-nonsense general who soaked up work like a sponge. DePuy quietly told me to go into his office. After I'd shut the door, I heard him take this colonel apart. He told Gregory he'd used poor judgment and that he should have called Pleiku instead. Then it was my turn.

General DePuy came into his office, closed the door, and tore my ass up. He made it clear he didn't appreciate my coming into his shop and conducting myself the way I had and that I should never talk to a senior officer that way. He went on like this for several minutes. “Sit down,” he said finally. Then he smiled and asked how Project DELTA was doing. The special recon project was actually his baby; his office gave us our missions. We talked for a while about DELTA, and then he asked me if there was something I needed. I thought for a moment, then asked for two Air Force FACs (forward air controllers) to be assigned to me. I needed them to work for me. Wherever DELTA went, it seemed we always had to borrow someone else's. These were the guys who directed the fighter sorties when we were in trouble. They were fellas you really wanted in your pocket. General DePuy agreed, and DELTA got its own FACs.

Christmas came and went and we continued to do business with the 1st Division and with Timothy's Traveling Troubles—the 1st Brigade (Separate) 101st Airborne Division—named after their CO, Brig. Gen. James S. Timothy. During this time I tried to make DELTA as autonomous as the 5th Special Forces Group would permit. I wanted my own reaction rifle companies, my own choppers and pilots, my own FACs. I had learned that from the SAS. They taught me if I was going to do something unique, something very dangerous, then I better have all my own horses. When your life and those of your people are the stakes, you don't want to have to depend on strangers. I ran my small DELTA ops center on each operation precisely the same way 22 SAS would have run it in Malaya. I ran it out of a little tent. Nothing fancy. Just efficient. I wasn't interested in eyewash.

I felt you led a unit two ways. I'd seen commanders who
led by persuasion, and I saw leaders who led by example. I thought the best was a combination. I had a rule that I wouldn't ask anyone to do anything I hadn't done or wasn't prepared to do. I also worried a lot about my guys. Coming back from a mission briefing in Saigon my guys would always meet me at Nha Trang. “What's the form, sir?” “The one we've got coming up,” I'd say, “is going to be a bad one. We're gonna get some people hurt, I'm afraid. We gotta look at it closely.” “Aw, shit, sir,” they'd say, “you say that every time.”

We came back from Christmas. We'd had a big cookout. We somehow came up with a couple of hogs, located some beer, and invited all the nurses over from the evac hospital. The camp we were building was nearly completed. The 5th Special Forces Group's executive officer. Jim Vail, accused me of spending too much money. I thought it was a cheap shot. He was living on the fat side of the group headquarters. Some things in the Army never change. I learned early to look out for my own unit. No one else would if I didn't.

When I arrived in Project DELTA I noticed we didn't have but a couple of vehicles and the ones we had were in bad condition. So I put the word out to the guys. Whenever we'd go on an operation in another corps area, we'd usually go in a C-130 aircraft. We would never fill up the entire aircraft. In the new area everyone would sort of look around at all those new jeeps, just sitting there, unlocked. Whenever we came back from an operation we'd always return in the C-130 with one or two new jeeps. Before you knew it, we had a pretty good-sized motor pool. Of course, we had to change bumper markings and things like that. I was finally told, in a real nice way, that my motor pool was large enough and it should stop growing—at once.

I don't guess we were the neatest unit in the Army. All I cared about was making sure everybody had sufficient uniforms. When I first entered the Army, I used to spend hours polishing boots. After I left England I wasn't the same. In Project DELTA I couldn't care less for spit and polish.

We were a fraternity of the cream of the crop in the 5th
Special Forces. We had a very tight bond. I believe that loyalty runs up and it runs down. I learned that presenting someone a 9mm Browning pistol or a Rolex GMT watch with his name on it wasn't the name of the game. You should reward people with a promotion, with another stripe.

I learned something at Plei Me: Human life is the most precious thing on earth. I didn't want to waste any of it by being stupid. This didn't cause me to be too cautious, but it did teach me to sit down and weigh the risks. If you were going to lose lives on an operation, that operation had better be worth it.

In the New Year of 1966 I looked around, surveyed where we were. I learned DELTA had obtained a very good reputation. DELTA had gotten away with a lot. It was just a matter of time before the percentages caught up with us. You didn't have to be a riverboat gambler to know that. When you hung your ass out as often as we did, it was just a matter of time. I believed this about the guys, but not about myself. I'd become convinced that I was indestructible. After Plei Me I figured I could walk through fire with impunity.

THIRTEEN

ABOUT MID-JANUARY OF
1966, Bulldog McKean heard about an operation that was going to be run by my good friends in the 1st Cav, up around the An Loa Valley in Binh Dinh Province. This was Indian country. “Why don't you go up there, Charlie, and talk to them. Let's see if we can get back on a good footing with the Cav.” “Sure, sir,” I said, “I'll be happy to.”

I went up to An Khe, got briefed, and was surprised that everyone was as nice as they could be. But, when I came back to Nha Trang I still hoped they wouldn't use us on this operation. I knew we'd have the same support and helicopter problems all over again. We'd argue and their staff officers would get mad. But the operation gained momentum. Colonel McKean told me that one of the Cav's brigades wanted to work with DELTA. I told him, “I know how they operate, so I've got a bad feeling about this. What do I do if they misuse us?” McKean said, “I'll set up an appointment for you to go and discuss this whole thing with General Larsen.” I knew “Swede” Larsen when he was assistant commandant of the Infantry School at Fort Benning and I was a student. He'd come into 'Nam and was the field force commander in the II Corps Tactical Zone. I liked and respected General Larsen. He had a tremendous combat record.

He understood how I felt about the 1st Cav. “General, Colonel McKean wants me to go, but I ain't keen on it.” He said, “Well, that's up to you, but they do need you.” Well, he just
stroked me around until I said I'd go. But before I capitulated, I asked the general to do something for me. “If I get up there and they ask me to do things I can't do, if they use me totally outside of my capabilities, I want your permission, or someone's, to pick up my marbles and come home.” “Absolutely,” he said, “and I will fix that.”

I took about thirty-five Americans from DELTA to Bong Son. The weather was bad, with a little bit of rain. There was a lot of artillery going off and the 3rd Brigade was sort of busy. I got a few minutes in a coordination meeting with Lt. Col. Hal Moore. I told him, “I'll have teams on the ground by last light tomorrow. Three will go in first to test the waters, then I'll send in others. I believe the An Loa Valley is full of VC.” “That's fine,” he said. “You go find them and I'll come kill them.”

This is Operation Masher. The idea is to sweep the coastal plain, drive the Viet Cong back up to Bong Son and into the mountains, then trap them in the An Loa. Project DELTA's mission is to find the enemy units. Once they have done this, the 1st Cav will be called in.

January 27th and 28th we ran some reconnaissance flights, and then late in the afternoon of the 28th I put three teams on the ground. The An Loa Valley is surrounded by high rugged mountains covered with double canopy foliage. Everything is quiet that night and I get some sleep. At first light one team comes up on our communication net and tells us that they've not made contact but there are VC all around them. They think they should come out. I agree. Ten minutes later the other two teams come up and they're in contact. One man is hit. Both teams are taking heavy fire. It's now about 1000 hours and it's raining. I can't do anything but wait for the weather to clear. I sit in the communications tent. I can't fly. These teams out there are in serious trouble and I can't help them. Everyone is very worried.

Finally it stops raining and the clouds break up a little—not much, but a little. Major Murphy, the helicopter commander, runs over to me. He's quite emotional, “Charlie, I
think we can get up there.” What I have in mind is to get onto the ground with my teams. I'm going to take my sergeant major and two radio operators. I feel if I get on the ground, then my ops officer, Bo Baker, will have some leverage to get the Cav to react more quickly.

Before we leave, I hand one of the guys my GMT Rolex. It's new and I don't want to get it banged up. We take off at once. We're forced by the weather to fly at treetop level. As we get close to the teams, we start receiving fire. Almost at once a .51-caliber machine-gun bullet comes through the helicopter. It goes in one side of my abdomen and comes out the other. I pass out.

The next thing I remember I'm lying on a stretcher back in Bong Son. A Green Beret medic gives me a shot of morphine. Some of the guys are standing around me. I ask. “Tell me how I am?” Lonnie Ledford says. “You're in bad shape, Boss.” People are running around. The slick that brought me back can't take off. It's shot up too bad. As luck has it, a chopper comes in right then. The guys grab the pilot. “Major Beckwith's been hit and we need to get him to the hospital in Qui Nhon.” Because of shock and the morphine, I don't yet know exactly where I've been hit, and I don't feel pain. I remember the helicopter ride, the litter, the hospital. I don't know its number. (I get it later, the 85th EVAC.) My brain clears for a while. Triage. A big redheaded nurse major comes up and looks me over. Then two doctors. One of them says, “He'll bleed to death before we can do anything for him.” They agree, I'm not worth fooling with. I'm not going to make it. I grab the big nurse, she's closest, “Now let's get one thing straight here. I ain't the average bear, and I didn't come in here to pack it in.” That gets the two doctors' attention. They begin to prepare me for surgery. This part's as clear as a bell. I become very violent and very profane. It's taking them too long. I know I'm dying. “Goddamn it, let's get on with it.” The nurse starts fooling with my arm. I still have a scar where she cut me trying to type my blood. I curse her. “I have to find out what type blood you have.” “Goddamn it,” I yell, “I'm A-positive. Look at my dog tags.” They aren't real happy
with me. They keep farting around. “Goddamn, let's move. Let's go!” I'm rolled into surgery. I start counting down from 100 and get to 94.

In the recovery room when I came to I knew I was in bad shape. I had hoses running in and out of me all over. A doctor came in and told me he'd had to remove my gallbladder and twenty-one inches of my small intestine. They'd cut me from the top of my chest all the way down to just above my penis. They had sewn me up with what looked like piano wire. They'd also done a temporary colostomy. The doctor told me I was fortunate to be alive.

I was very thirsty, but the nurses couldn't give me any water. Every couple of hours I got an ice cube to suck.

That evening a Hawaiian boy, shot up worse than I, was rolled in from the operating room. The duty nurse came over to me and said, “Major, this boy next to you is in a bad way.” He'd been gut shot as well as having been hit in the shoulder, the hip, and the leg. He lay on the cot next to me. I reached over and grabbed his hand. “It's up to you,” I told him. “If you want to make it you can. It's all in your mind.” I squeezed as hard as I could. “If you want to quit you'll be dead by morning. If you're strong you'll live. Goddamn, son, make up your mind.” He barely squeezed my hand back. Just a little pressure. As it turned out, he was up and out of the hospital long before I was.

I stayed in the recovery ward for thirty days. Again, they thought I was going to die. Bullets are not clean and I was severely infected. At first no one knew what was wrong with me. I went way down. I had a terrible fever. They called the chaplain and I had a last little conference with him. The doctor came around in the morning. I told him, “I feel like shit. I ain't sure I'm gonna make it. I'm losing strength.” He said, “We can't figure it out.” I said, “You know, I got a lump over here.” He put his hand under my right armpit. “That's all pus!” Within a half hour I was back in surgery.

February 1966. I was sort of in charge of the recovery room by right of being there the longest. I was also the senior officer.
There weren't a lot of majors getting shot up at this time. The doctors would bring other doctors around and they'd show them my operations. I was sort of, I guess, a showpiece. One doctor came looking for me. He wanted to see himself this man who had gone through twenty-three pints of blood during surgery.

There were many people coming in and out of that hospital. You could tell there was a war going on. Being next to the operating room I often saw doctors just come in, find a cot, and fall asleep for an hour until it was time to go back to work. They worked around the clock. The nurses were good to me. At night, when I couldn't sleep, they'd bring me a small cup of Kool-Aid. Goddamn, I really appreciated that.

One day a boy, just out of the OR, came out of his anesthesia and began to howl. I tried to encourage him, but he just laid there and shouted and moaned. This went on all night. He began to drive everyone in recovery crazy. Finally, about four o'clock I said, “You're the noisiest sonovabitch I've ever heard.” About six o'clock he stopped hollering—when he died.

Another time, the nurses and orderlies came around sweeping, washing, and cleaning. “What the hell's going on,” everyone wanted to know. No one knew. All they'd heard was a code 7 or something was coming up for a visit. They knew the code number was the highest they'd ever received. That afternoon General Westmoreland paid a visit. He sat by my bed for a while and asked if I needed anything. He talked to every soldier there.

My guys came around to see me. Lonnie Ledford returned my Rolex. I had known Lonnie a long time. He'd been my old ops sergeant back in Buzz Miley's B Company at Fort Bragg. I'd told the guys that if anything ever happened to me I wanted them to divide up the weapons I'd collected and stored in my footlocker. I'd picked up a couple of folding-stock carbines and bolt-action rifles—things like that.

“How about the weapons?” I asked Ledford.

“We've divided them up.”

“Can I have my 9mm Browning?”

“Nope. Sorry, sir. They're all divided up.”

Lonnie also told me what happened to the three recon teams after I was hit. The first team that had come up on the radio early, the one which was not engaged, got out O.K. The other two, the ones I tried to reach, were not as fortunate. The 1st Cav made no effort to help them after I went down. Seven men were killed. The others hid in the jungle and eventually made their way out.

Hal Moore, the CO of the Cav's 3rd Brigade, the guy that had said, “You find them. I'll kill them,” came around once and visited with his soldiers. I knew damn well he knew I was in that hospital, but he never said a word to me. I was wounded while supporting his brigade.

Soon I was flown to the Philippines. Then, with a large batch of wounded. I was moved to Letterman General Hospital in San Francisco. The next morning, early, 4:00
A.M
., they woke all of us who had come in the night before and moved us to the loading area outside the hospital. We began to wait for the ambulances. We lay on our stretchers and waited. I'll tell you, San Francisco in March is cold. I began to hear guys up and down the line: “You know, I'm freezing my ass off.” I was, too. Finally, I started hollering. A nurse came out after a while, “What's your problem?” I said, “My problem is I want to see who is in charge of this hospital and I damn want to see him now! If you don't get him, I'm going to raise more hell than you ever thought about.” A lieutenant colonel came over to me. I reached up and got hold of him by the hand. “You're the dumbest sonovabitch I've known. We've been lying out here over an hour, freezing to death. You get some blankets out here.” In less time than it takes to tell it, we had blankets.

I eventually arrived at my final destination, Great Lakes Naval Hospital outside of Chicago. Katherine came over from Michigan, where she had taken an apartment near her parents, and was there to welcome me with her loving care.

Of course, all during this period I was really concerned about where I was going next. I requested that I be sent to the 10th Special Forces Group in Germany. Then, one day while
I was sitting in bed reading, the phone rang. I picked it up and heard, “Is this that snotty-nosed motor pool officer I sent to England?” It was Col. Boppy Edwards, who was now Director of the Ranger Department at Fort Benning. “Where you going to be reassigned?” I told him Germany. “I don't think you want to do that. I think you want to come on down to Benning and run one of the Ranger camps for me. Charlie, do you object if I sort of put my oar in the water and get your assignment changed?” Within a few days I was ordered to report to Fort Benning, Georgia.