Delta Force (11 page)

In early May 1966, the doctors finally cleared and released me. After some more rest I went over to Detroit and bought a black Harley Sprint motorcycle. I planned on riding it from Michigan to Fort Benning. I like to feel the wind in my hair.

FOURTEEN

TIME BEGAN TO
slip by now. Some years moved quickly. Some slowly. I'd decided at last they were not going to listen to me. The U.S. Army could see no possible reason why they should have a unit with an SAS capability. My wheels came off the track. I'd broken my head once too often on the bureaucracy. Even I learn. I stopped charging. The flame flickered. Those years I spent earning my keep, paying my dues. I kept soldiering.

This period began in the summer of 1966 when Colonel Edwards asked me to run the third phase of the Ranger training course. I realized this would give me a chance to implement principles learned in the SAS and with Project DELTA in Vietnam. I decided it'd give me a chance to state my philosophy. First, the training should be a learning experience. Second, each candidate had to earn the right to wear the Ranger tab. Lastly, every Ranger would have an insurance policy that the training he received might save his life in combat.

The purpose of Ranger training at this time was to teach an extremely high quality of leadership at the small unit level—squads and platoons—primarily to junior officers and NCOs. The first phase, which was basic in nature, was taught at Fort Benning. The Chattahoochee National Forest, near Dahlonega, Georgia, was the site of the second phase. The students there were taught how to conduct patrols, raids, and ambushes in a mountainous setting. The third phase, taught in northwest Florida at Auxiliary Field 7 at Eglin Air Force Base, conducted
small-unit commando-type exercises in marshy swampland.

Realism was so important, and it was necessary to put the Florida phase of Ranger training into a Vietnam mode. The course needed instructors who were recent Vietnam returnees, men who'd been in the mud, had seen combat, guys who knew what it was all about. Colonel Edwards supported this, and whenever possible he'd send down officers and noncoms who, coming into the Ranger Department, had combat experience. Eventually, some very good instructors came on board, men like Dave Bramlett and Jim Daily, who'd seen action and knew how to prepare soldiers for war.

Colonel Edwards gave me a free hand in Florida. Along with upgrading my instructors I attempted to update and modernize the Ranger training exercises. Going through the files I found all the exercises thoroughly locked in on paper. It gave the bureaucrats something to do. I found antiquated exercises that hadn't been changed in years. I said, “To hell with this.” Changes had to be made and no one had the time to write everything up. Within six months the staff changed every exercise in the training phase. People came down from Benning and observed what was happening. The recruits were put through combat-simulated exercises. Everybody was happy and everything was on track. Finally, a staff officer came down to inspect the vault files. “None of these files,” he said, “match anything you're doing.” “Yeah,” I said, “that's right. These exercises are dynamic and are constantly being changed.” This caused a stink for a while and I was told to update my vault files. I never did. Didn't have the time.

A tombstone was put up in front of the briefing shack where each Ranger class gathered for its welcome to the three weeks of training. The epitaph read:

I also, occasionally, did something else to get the trainees' attention. Fully dressed in a field uniform I'd jump into Holly Creek, then soaking wet I'd dash up the hill and confront the class as they sat on the bleachers. “If a man is bloody stupid,” I'd tell them, “his mother will receive a telegram and it will say, ‘Your son is dead because he's stupid.' Let's hope your telegram only reads, ‘Your son is dead.' With the training we're going to give you here maybe your mother won't receive any telegram at all. So pay attention!”

We always tried to remain current in our training. This was done by floating new Vietnam returnees through our staff. Every time we got an instructor who had recently finished his combat tour, we'd usually have added a new VC booby trap to our curriculum. The war continuously twisted and turned and changed. We tried to keep up with it in Florida. I wanted to save lives.

In the spring of '67, I received a call from Colonel Edwards.

“Charlie, get your ass up here to Benning. Bring everything you can on the SAS with you. There's a chance we can put a Ranger unit together and send it to 'Nam, and I'd like to see you command it.” So, boy, I'm vibrating now, I'm back on the crusade. The flame, again, burned bright.

At Benning I learned Colonel Edwards wanted to propose a Ranger battalion to go to Vietnam, and he didn't care how I organized it. I sat down at once with one of my officers, Capt. Dave Bramlett, a very bright young West Pointer, and we skillfully wrote up an SAS unit proposal using Ranger nomenclature—the selection process, the training, the evaluation, goals, missions, everything went into our proposal. Colonel Edwards flew to Saigon with it and briefed General Westmoreland. Although impressed, he was only a few days away from deciding to reactivate the Long Range Patrol Companies, which was an entirely different concept. In other words, there wasn't any justification now for activating a Ranger battalion along SAS lines. The proposal was put on a
back burner. The light burned dimmer. After that training cycle, Katherine, recognizing a difference in me, asked what the trouble was. I told her straight out, “I need to go back to Vietnam. I was wounded and I want to find out if I can handle it again.”

I'd heard a rumor that the balance of the 101st Airborne Division out of Fort Campbell was going to 'Nam. I said, “If the 101st is going, I'm going with it.” Since I'd just made lieutenant colonel, I thought I could get a battalion.

Katherine said, “That's up to you, but I think you're crazy.”

FIFTEEN

AFTER TET, ON
February 10, 1968, I took command of the 2nd battalion (327th Airborne Infantry) 101st Airborne Division. This was straightforward infantry work; pure yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full; square the corners, straighten the lines, sweep the fire base, search and destroy the enemy. This is chain of command administration, don't stop and talk to the old man, take it to the first sergeant.

The tempo of the war at this stage was much faster than when I was here last. There were a lot of bad guys running around now. You could get killed very easily. I felt it was my job as a battalion CO to come to grips with the enemy and destroy him. I went looking for fights and anybody didn't feel the same way shouldn't be around me. When Col. “Rip” Collins commanded the 1st Brigade, each of the Division's battalions shared equally in the hard jobs. Later, when “Doc” Hayward had the brigade, I felt that whenever there was a nasty job to be done the 2/327 got it. I liked that. We were known as the “No Slack” battalion.

During the nine months I had the battalion, I saw some very brave men in the 101st Airborne Division. We had a good track record, many successes.

After Hue, we cleared the area around the Division headquarters in what was known as Operation Mingo. Then came action while the 2/327 was attached to the 1st Cav for Operation Jeb Stuart. Operation Nevada Eagle cleared the Hue–Phu Bai area. Somerset Plain swept the southern portion of the A
Shau Valley. The toughest job the battalion had was clearing a seven kilometer stretch along Route 547, which ran west from Hue. There were no VC here, just NVA regulars! The road faced steep mountain and thick, nearly impenetrable jungle. The cost was high. We got clawed and we clawed back. Eventually, the road was won and Fire Support Base Bastogne established.

I learned if you command an infantry battalion in combat in Vietnam for nine months it's going to grind you down. We took a lot of casualties. All losses are bad. Some still stay with me. Much of what happened haunts me to this day.

Toward the end of the tour I became very tired. I was offered the Division's operations shop but turned it down. I did that for several reasons. The bombing of North Vietnam had been discontinued and that turned me off. If we were going to hang our ass out over there and they were not going to continue the bombing, then I was confused.

I'd also learned that Maj. Gen. Melvin Zais was replacing Gen. Olinto Barsanti as commander of the Division. Barsanti, whose call sign was Bold Eagle, was a wild man. He literally terrified his battalion commanders—ate lieutenant colonels for breakfast. Hard as he was on officers, Barsanti was always good to the troops. I somehow got along with him just fine. Mel Zais was a different story. In my opinion, he didn't trust his subordinates. The 2/327 was being extracted from the A Shau Valley. The weather was bad, heavy fog drifted across the valley floor, and because of the timing necessary to lift the troops, my plate was full. It was a complicated but not impossible job. I'd done it numerous times before. What I didn't need was someone else on my radio net offering advice. Nevertheless, Mel Zais came on my frequency and began to tell me how I should do my job. So when my tour was up, I felt it was best for me not to return to the 101st. I had paid my dues. I'd done two tours in Vietnam. It was time to go home.

My next assignment was in Hawaii at CINCPAC (Commander in Chief, Pacific). I was thinking that this was a place where they could use my expertise. I had my family with me, it was Hawaii, and I was looking forward to the new challenge.

Eventually I went to work for Col. R. C. “Butch” Kendrick. No finer officer ever defecated between a pair of jump boots. The general officers in CINCPAC called Butch a “fountain of knowledge.” Whenever the answer to a tactical question was needed, they'd go to him. The Army made a terrible mistake when they didn't select him to be a general officer. He, like Boppy Edwards, was very straightforward, intelligent, and someone who knew how to take care of his troops.

I began my work by monitoring a couple of Special Operations programs. I was responsible for watching the 1st Special Forces based on Okinawa, the 5th Special Forces Group in 'Nam, which I knew well, and cross-border operations conducted by MACV-SOG (Military Assistance Command, Vietnam Studies and Observation Group).

Kendrick had an Air Force colonel named Bill Christian working for him. Bill Christian didn't know anything about Special Operations, but this guy really knew how to put pen to paper. I was required to write a lot of papers. Unfortunately, it was a task at which I had little skill. Colonel Christian spent a lot of time crossing my t's and dotting my i's. He'd get so disgusted. But he worked with me and what he appreciated most was that I wouldn't give up. He taught me the King's English, how to organize my thoughts, how to write, how to prepare a staff paper. After about six months of teaching and learning, instructor and student, I began to feel comfortable with words on paper. I owe Colonel Christian for that.

This job also gave me the opportunity to go back to Southeast Asia. I made many trips to Saigon and Bangkok and Phnom Penh. We made every effort to develop a good viable UW (Unconventional Warfare) campaign in Cambodia. I was on sort of a fast train and learned a lot being on the CINCPAC staff. It always made me feel good when I was asked to serve on special studies groups. They'd ask for me by name; they recognized my experience. I felt very productive. Promotion time came. When the list came out my name was not on it. I hadn't made full colonel. I felt I had earned it. I got hold of some people in the personnel business at the Pentagon. “Well, first of all,” they told me, “you don't have a college degree.
Second, you've stepped on a lot of toes, boy.”

I decided to get my act together and go get a college education. When I left the University of Georgia after four years, I lacked thirty hours of graduating. I'd had my nose in a football, not in the books. I decided to change my major from physical education to political science. At Chaminade College in Honolulu I undertook a full year, carrying a full load of courses, to earn my degree. The Army gave me the year to bootstrap. I found I loved school and I graduated with a 3.5 grade average.

In June 1973 I took an assignment with the JCRC (the Joint Casualty Resolution Center) operating out of Nakhon Phanom, Thailand. Its purpose was to search for the bodies of men who'd been killed in Southeast Asia. The Special Forces were going to supply people who would go out in small patrols to places where there was thought to be remains of dead Americans.

The commander of the JCRC was Brig. Gen. Robert Kingston. He was the same officer who had met me at the dock in Southampton just as I was beginning my exchange tour with 22 SAS. I was greatly surprised to learn that General Kingston was not pleased to have me there. He has a tremendous memory and he remembered I wasn't very cordial to him that summer morning in England eleven years before. “But, sir,” I told him one night, “I was a captain and you were a major. I didn't think I should
embrace
you.” We became very good friends once we cleared up the misunderstanding. Kingston has a Boston accent which belies his two nicknames, Barbed Wire Bob and War Lord. He'd won a DSC in Vietnam. I found him to be ruthless when necessary, aggressive, intelligent, and one of the best friends I've ever had.

The mission was a tough one. We were not permitted by the North Vietnamese to go into certain areas to search for the remains of the men who had paid the supreme price. Then, in December 1973, one of the teams searching south of Saigon was ambushed by an NVA patrol. We were ordered to stand down. We remained idle and had nothing to do but play sports and stay out of trouble.

Before leaving Thailand, I wrote the Military Personnel Center in Washington asking them to assess what possible military assignments might come my way. Was there a future for me in the Army?

I received a real nice reply. “We've gone over your record very carefully and recognize you have some unique skills. We think you should stay in the Army. Because you've been passed over once for promotion, we feel your possibility for command again is remote.” The letter explained how I could help in staff areas.

When I showed the letter to Kingston he said, “They're trying to give you a message. Next time you'll get promoted.” Because so many people had been passed over the last time, the new promotion list came out in ten months. I was at the top of this one. I had made full colonel.

After the tour in Thailand ended in May 1974 I asked to go to Fort Bragg. General Healey was the commanding general of the United States Army John F. Kennedy Center for Military Assistance, usually called The Center, and had formerly been known in the early sixties, when I was at Bragg, as the Special Warfare Center. General Healey didn't know me well, but some others there did. One officer urged Mike Healey to have nothing to do with me. Others told him I would be an asset to his staff. Healey was confused until Butch Kendrick, who Healey had worked for and liked, gave me a sterling recommendation.

One day General Healey called me down to his office. “I have been directed to run a sports program for ninety Mexican officers. This is a project,” he said, “that the Air Force didn't want, the Navy didn't want, and the Marines didn't want, so they pawned it off on the Army. The Army pawned it off on General DePuy, at TRADOC [Training and Doctrine Command], and General DePuy pawned it off on me. Damn it, Charlie, I don't want it but I'm stuck with it. And now you're stuck with it.” That was the way Healey operated.

I was an old jock and knew how to organize things. Looking around I found the experts. We lined up our coaches, administrators, and interpreters, and we taught ninety Mexican Army
officers how to organize and conduct sporting events such as track and field meets. The training conducted at Lackland AFB in San Antonio received some recognition, and was considered a huge success.

Healey came to me afterward and in essence said, “You did well. Now I've got to show you my appreciation.” I said, “Yes, sir. I've served my time in purgatory.” He asked me what job I wanted although he'd already made up his mind what he was going to do with me. There really was only one job that fit me perfectly. I knew it and everybody else did, too. I became commandant of the Special Forces School.

General Healey left Fort Bragg shortly afterward for an assignment in Turkey. His replacement, who after leaving Thailand, had been the ADC with the 1st Infantry Division, who had just received a second star, who was known as Barbed Wire and War Lord, was Bob Kingston. Things, I said to myself, are picking up. When General Kingston arrived at the JFK Center, we had several meetings about what the school should be doing, and found ourselves in perfect accord. In the evenings—the Kingstons had moved in across the street from Katherine and me—we had many long discussions about the military. He reminisced about the Parachute Regiment, and I'd talk fondly about the 22 SAS. We had the Brits in common. He had told me on my first day in England, “You're going to love this year with the SAS. I envy you.” He felt about the SAS the way I did.

He came to see me one day in late 1975. “Charlie. I'm going to Washington. I want you to put together a paper for me on the SAS.” Well, just like that, out of nowhere—I felt like, well, you know, damn…!