burners may think we don't belong in Vietnam, but we know a lot of people here who take a highly personal view that we do.
One is Pat Cuthbertson, an old soldier by anyone's standards.
Pat entered the Army in 1942 as a teen-ager. As a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne Division, he jumped into Normandy before the dawn of D-Day in 1944. He fought through the hedgerows of France and later jumped into Holland. That winter he was in Bastogne.
During the Korean thing he was in four campaigns, and by the time that one was over, he had earned enough ribbons to embellish the chest of any general.
In 1965 he was among the first ground combat troops to enter Vietnam, arriving in May with the 173rd Airborne. After a few months in the States in 1966, Pat volunteered again and now is with a 1st Infantry Division unit at Phuoc Vinh, a U.S. enclave in the heart of War Zone D.
On July 27, 1967, Charlie hit the Phuoc Vinh base camp for the third straight night. Headquarters reported 14 killed and 70-some wounded from the barrage of 122mm rockets and 82mm mortars.
The first round landed near enough to Pat's tent to blow him off his cot. He started to get up and sprint for a bunker some 20 yards away, then thought better of it and decided to hug the ground where he was. Within seconds, another round landed midway between him and the bunker. He would have run right into it. As it was, shrapnel tore through his tent, his clothing, cot, and mosquito net. He wasn't hit!
We were at Phuoc Vinh just ten days later, when Pat cheerfully announced that he had just extended to serve another six months in Vietnam.
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The preceding piece was written in August 1967; this in October:
PAT went home in a year after all. The next VC rocket attack didn't miss him and he spent four weeks in the hospital at Long Binh.
On his way home he dropped in to say good-by and to tell us about his wound, mentioning casually that it was his fourth Purple Heart. He had taken a chunk of rocket shrapnel high and inside his right thigh, quite close to the groin.
"Did you lose ... er ... is, ah ... I mean..."
"No, I'm okay" Pat said with a grin, "but I'll tell you one thing. It's a damn good thing I was dressed left."
* * *
WE'RE still puzzled by the six Danang stores which display identically worded signs: "Sell Charcoal Store." Since the city is off limits to GIs, what are they trying to sell to whom, the charcoal or the store?
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IHAD worked and lived with sailors before: nearly a month on an assault transport in 1945, and later on the beach with a joint staff at Pearl Harbor.
I was not aware, however, that competition and rivalry between ships are every bit as intense as that between Army divisions until I visited the U.S.S. Coral Sea, which was launching strikes against North Vietnam from Yankee Station in the Tonkin Gulf.
Launch and recovery operations are monitored throughout the ship on closed-circuit television, and I was in one of the pilots' ready rooms watching when an F4 Phantom missed the approach and went around again. It missed the next four as well, twice nearly hitting the water.
On the sixth try, the plane's tail hook caught the arresting cable and the fighter roared to a stop.
The Coral Sea's TV cameraman zoomed in on the plane's fuselage until the whole screen was filled with the words "U.S.S. Constellation."
* * *
THERE are many situations in Vietnam in which combat troops are not allowed to shoot at the enemy, even when fired upon, without permission from higher authority. This is often frustrating, particularly when coupled with a multitude of communication problems, not the least of which is the sometimes total inability to contact the superior whose authority is necessary in order to return the fire.
We were told of an infantry platoon of the 1st Cavalry Division which was being harassed by snipers and sporadic mortar fire near An Khe. After a little reconnoitering, the enemy positions were pinpointed and permission was requested to return the fire. The platoon was told to wait, and that it would be several minutes before the necessary approval could be secured. Meanwhile, the enemy fire was increasing in intensity and accuracy, and the troops were getting edgy. Still there was no approval to return the fire.
The platoon leader, a combat-seasoned first lieutenant, was growing impatient, as was his platoon sergeant.
"What would happen, Lieutenant," asked the sergeant in a manner more calculating than inquiring, "if we didn't have the damn radio, or if something happened to it?"
"I guess," said the lieutenant, "I'd have to act independently and use my own judgment."
The NCO nodded silently, then crawled quickly away to where the radio operator was listening intently. There was an ear-splitting crash and, in a few moments, the sergeant inched his way back to where the lieutenant was dug in.
"Sir, I am sorry to report that the radio is out of commission," said the sergeant.
"Very well, tell the men to go ahead and return the fire," said the straight-faced platoon leader. "By the way, what happened to the radio?"
"I'm not sure, sir," replied the equally straight-faced noncom, "but I think one of the fallopian tubes went out."
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THE dense vegetation along South Vietnam's western borders provides excellent cover for Communist cadres infiltrating into the Republic. In order to make border crossings more difficult for the enemy, the Air Force has organized several units whose mission is the chemical defoliation of large tracts of wilderness. Without the heavy jungle for protection, aerial spotting of the enemy has become considerably easier.
The motto of one of these outfits, the 12th Air Commando Squadron at Bien Hoa, is "Only You Can Prevent Forests."
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IF you've ever wondered what kind of men fight America's wars, maybe I can help you. Nice Guys fight America's wars, and Nice Guys don't always finish last.
Take for example the case of Staff Sergeant Robert Borja, the mess steward for the 6th Battalion, 29th Artillery, 4th Infantry Division. Bob was tending his fires shortly before supper one evening at his unit's base camp near Pleiku, when an infantry company trudged wearily in from the field. They had been in the boonies for more than three months, had eaten nothing but C-rations during that time, and had suffered nearly every imaginable hardship of war. Their company commander had been killed in a stiff fire-fight the day before, and several of their number were walking wounded. Despite all this, it wasn't long before the infantrymen got a whiff of Sergeant Borja's more than excellent chow.
In a low, almost apologetic voice, the acting CO asked if it would be possible for Sergeant Borja to feed the company. Bob looked at the hopeful faces of the bedraggled troopers and his reply to the query was nothing more nor less than his unit's motto: "Can Do."
He dug out some steaks−put aside for some more auspicious occasion, lit off some charcoal, and served piping hot meals to a company of men who had all but forgotten how good food could taste. To the modest Sergeant Borja, the gratitude
