South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Griping Keeps 'em Happy-Horseplay Brightens Life of All Marines

November 4, 1966

Dong Ha, South Viet Nam--While paddling around in the mud here in the 3d Marine Division advance command post, I ran into a playful group of young Marines dressed in fatigues who had made it their immediate mission to consume a week's beer ration they'd just received.

It was a colorful group which featured a Notre Dame graduate nicknamed The Brain; a youngster from Detroit, Mich., by the name of Skater; a boy from Guthrie, Ky., dubbed the Squirrel; a boy of Swedish parentage who answered to the name of Hunk; and another lad they called the Porcupine.

It seemed that the group, all privates, were so busy consuming the beer supply that they hadn't taken time to give the rest of the group nicknames, at least printable nicknames.

All of them had been taken out of the front lines because they were too ill to function as soldiers. They were suffering from a variety of ailments...malaria, jungle rot, or dysentery. They were too ill to function as soldiers, but not sick enough to be bed fast, and certainly not too sick to indulge in horseplay, beer drinking, and the soldier's favorite pastime, griping.

Only in a military camp could such a cross section of America emerge. The Brain was Pfc. Richard A. Redznak, 27, Fort Johnson, N.Y. He was graduated from the University of Notre Dame in 1961 and was a teacher at St. Mary's institute, Amherst, N.Y., before enlisting in the Corps.

Redznak has been in the Marines 18 months and has served in Viet Nam five months. He was taken out of the lines when he got jungle rot after 21 days of action.

The Skater was Robert J. Stanczak, 21, Detroit, Mich. Skater has been in the Corps a year and Viet Nam six months. He too, had jungle rot on both feet. He earned his name by somehow managing to escape virtually all of the work details assigned to privates in the Marines.

Terry Lyons, 21, Guthrie, Ky., somehow earned the nickname Squirrel. He's a pleasant, mild mannered kid who really gets a kick out of the way his buddies act up. Lyons has been in the Corps three years and in Viet Nam three months. He came down with jungle rot and a skin rash after spending 16 days in action.

Lloyd N. Kurtz, 21, Washington, D.C., was tagged with the moniker Porcupine because his light blond hair stands straight up. According to his pals, not even a shower will make his unruly mop lay down. He's been in the Corps 11 months and in Viet Nam six months. He was wounded by shrapnel at La Tho Bac, May 14 and received the Purple Heart. He was recently taken off the lines with jungle rot after 17 days duty.

Fens Johannes, 20, Richmond, Va., earned the nickname Hunk and he deserves it. It's very doubtful that any three Marines in the camp could have whipped Hunk. But he's so good natured it's hard to imagine him with a gun in his hands killing people. He too was a victim of jungle rot.

The rest of the group was comprised of David L. Jackson, 20, Mount Pulaski, Ill., Paul E. Petanbrink, 20, Scottdale, Pa., Richard L. Rice, 22, Lansing, Mich., and Kenneth L. Ray, 22, Natrona Heights, Pa.

None of them had kind words for America's role in the war here. To a man they believe that the Vietnamese people, or a large majority of them, don't appreciate what we are trying to gain for them.

The following quotes came from members of the group but will not be attributed to the men who spoke them.

"All of us have seen our buddies blown to bits by booby traps and mines in villages and have seen the villagers laugh about it. We've been sold booze by the Vietnamese that either has ground glass in it or has been poisoned. We know that we help these people out and they turn on us."

"A lot of them are spies. They report our movements to the North Vietnamese or the VC and we get chopped up."

Another man said, "for a hell of a long time we didn't have any beer in this camp. But the Vietnamese Army had beer. They'd send little kids up to the edge of the fence and sell us beer for $10 or $12 a case."

"We don't have much use for a lot of the Vietnamese soldiers," another Marine said. "They think we are fighting a 9-to-5 war. Some of them are gritty fighters, but too damned many of them run out when the fighting starts."

"They've told us, "'it's your war, not ours,'" the angry Marine said.

Another Marine said men in the ranks, the Grunts, are looked down on by everyone else in the Corps. "If they send fresh fruit, doughnuts or fruit juice to us out in the field, the officers and non-coms end up with about 90 percent of what is sent out. We get what's left. I've had a half a peach and some juice, lots of times, and that's if I'm lucky."

As he gestured around the tent another Marine said, "Look at this. A muddy floor, holes in the tent, rats running all over the place. It's filthy. And they think we're going to love them for this," the Marine snorted.

There's a military cliche which states if a soldier isn't griping he isn't happy. If that holds true, joy abounds in Dong Ha.

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Diners Use Mud Carpet-'English Hotel' In Vietnam Stirs Hoosier's Nostalgia

November 3, 1966

Dong Ha, South Viet Nam--Few Hoosiers will have trouble recalling the old English Hotel on Monument Circle in Indianapolis. That hotel was torn down to make room for a department store.

But there's a new English Hotel here at Dong Ha operated by Brig. Gen. Lowell English, assistant commander of the Marine Corps 3d Division.

It's jokingly called a hotel and its accommodations, at best, would never match, even the decayed splendor of the old English Hotel in Indianapolis.

Room service here is terrible, either K or C rations and instant coffee. Our dining room is a half a block away, a refreshing jaunt in the rain through a sea of mud. Dong Ha is one of the few places in the world where you can take your shower on the way to breakfast.

Once the mess hall is reached, it's a remnant of an old French army outpost, the splendor of the situation is such that the hardships are forgotten.

The food is good, so good that a person hardly notices that the roof leaks terribly and everyone eats with a poncho held over their plate. Nearly everyone is busy swatting flies or mosquitoes with the other hand, with the result that their food is generally cold before they get to eat.

Members of the press are lucky. They are allowed to eat inside.

The Marine Corps Grunts, as they call themselves, eat their meals in three tents. That sounds pretty good until one sees the process. At mealtime the Grunts line up outside with their trays and are served their food. They must then dash back to the mess hall tents before the rain washes the food off of their trays.

Once inside though, they've got solid comfort. They sit on rough wooden benches and place their trays on plywood laid across saw horses. Nearly everyone manages to stay dry, with the exception of their feet.

Camp planners managed to locate the Grunt mess tents in an area through which three drainage streams flow when it rains. And lately it seems it's always raining. The three tents have the only self flushing floors in the world.

The restroom facilities are in two locations, each a half-block walk. The Marines and correspondents alike, so dread the walk to either area in the rain that they wait and wait and then wait some more. When conditions become critical a mass exodus begins.

America can only hope that an attack by the North Vietnamese isn't timed with the dash for the latrines.

Women correspondents have presented another problem for the Marines which the Corps has handled in admirable fashion. Naturally, women couldn't use the same facilities as the rest of the camp. Gen. English graciously allowed the women to use his facilities and provides escorts for them to prevent incidents.

Pranksters immediately painted a sign and nailed it to English's latrine which said, "Ladies and Generals."

The hotel operator, Gen. English, provides another service which would be most unusual in the states. He has armed body guards assigned to protect correspondents when they go into the field with the Marines on patrol.

One of those bodyguards is S/Sgt. William E. Warren Jr., 39, Oceanside, Calif., the father of seven children. He's been in the Marine Corps 21 years and in Viet Nam four months.

His only complaint about the press, "They just don't duck fast enough. They are so busy rubber necking and taking pictures they don't get down."

No newspaper correspondents have been wounded while with Warren, but Roger Peterson, ABC correspondent from Chicago, suffered a bullet wound in the right arm Oct. 14 near the DMZ while covering a Marine operation.

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: 'Little Alamo' Happy To Be Surrounded

November 2, 1966

Dong Ha, South Viet Nam--From November 1965 to last February, the most remote American military base in this country was here, where the 620th Tactical Control Squadron of the Air Force was assigned the task of setting up a radar base. It has earned the location the nickname, "The Little Alamo."

Only 189 men were assigned the task of building, maintaining, and securing this base. Their only protection was a company of Vietnamese troops. For a time it seemed, the brass who believed it was important to have a base here, had forgotten it would also be necessary to protect it.

From November 1965 through March 1966, the base was attacked by mortar fire several times. The American personnel suffered no casualties in the attacks and damage to the installation was light.

A large portion of the men stationed at Dong Ha during those early months were technicians and maintenance men who were not trained for combat.

The task of defending the American base, a tiny island in the path of a major North Vietnamese infiltration route, fell to Sgt. Maj. Walter H. Smith, 43, Portsmouth, N.H., and Staff Sgt. Robert C. Hester, 27, Dublin, N.C., who, with five trained Air Policemen and Vietnamese labor, created a fortress around the radar installation.

Hester and his men manned the bunkers overlooking the barbed wire and the heavily mined fields on the perimeter, frequently working 18 and 22 hour days.

Toward the end of March the base got a major scare. The guards manning the bunkers spotted a large number of troops moving eastward along the 3,900 foot airstrip which French engineers built in the early 1950s.

Hester sounded the alarm to his commander, Maj. Lawrence C. Cummings, and the tiny crew of Air Policemen and Vietnamese troops watched quietly as the North Vietnamese soldiers marched past, within 500 yards of the base.

"We watched them go by. We didn't fire a shot and neither did they," Hester said thankfully. "They probably could have wiped us out. But if they'd tried it would have cost them plenty. We were determined to fight to the last man. Our guys would have put up a hell of a fight."

It was about this time the base earned its "Little Alamo" nickname and the brass decided they should begin protecting the vital radar site. All it took was three mortar attacks and a march through by the North Vietnamese infiltrators.

Texas Governor John Connally made all the men at the radar base honorary Texans when he heard of their plight and the nickname.

The first protection the radar base received came from a platoon of 3d Division Marines about the middle of May. Since then, the Marine strength here has grown from a platoon to the site of the advance 3d Marine Division headquarters.

The Air Force radar base is surrounded now, but according to Hester and Smith, it's the best feeling they've had for a long time, being surrounded by Marines.

Air Force personnel on the base now number more than 400. The Air Police still protect the perimeter, but they now have more than 30 men handling that chore.

With more men to work with, the Air Police have formed a special quick reaction force of six highly trained and heavily armed men who can move to any spot within the camp perimeter in less than four minutes after an alert is sounded.

While the Marines are busy clearing out infiltrators and watching the infiltration routes, the Air Force can now devote all its time to directing and controlling our bomber strikes and serve as an early warning station, in the event of an enemy air attack.

Off duty time passes slowly for the Marines and Airmen stationed here. Sgt. Smith, a veteran of 24 years service and the father of four children said, "We wish we had some checkers, or some games of some kind we could play to occupy our time."

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: 7th Marines Dig In-Monsoon Slows Buildup In South Viet

November 1, 1966

Dong Ha, South Viet Nam--The monsoon rains have begun here, and they come at a critical point in the American arms buildup designed to stop an invasion of South Viet Nam by North Vietnamese forces.

The rains came late this year, according to many of the Vietnamese. And every day that the rains held off, American strength grew. With almost perfect weather, reconnaissance planes were able to spot small bands of North Vietnamese moving south along infiltration routes.

And, once the enemy was spotted, artillery fire and air strikes were called in to wipe them out. Marines of the Third Division led several patrols with good success into many different sections of the rugged terrain and chased the enemy back across the demilitarized zone, while the weather was good. As a result of the rains, no recent major encounters have been reported.

Now, Marine units on top of the Rockpile, to the northwest, and in the Nuy Con Thien region, and in Helicopter Valley, hold wet, lonely vigils at their outposts.

Helicopters can't fly in the heavy rains and low ceilings. Artillery spotter planes can't see the enemy and therefore are unable to mark North Vietnamese camps with smoke rockets to guide air strikes and artillery fire.

On the ground, living in the extreme conditions, many of the men become ill with fevers and begin to suffer jungle rot and trench foot.

The men of the Third Battalion of the Seventh Marines are dug in atop the ridges of Helicopter Valley, about 12 miles northwest of Dong Ha.

During Operation Hastings, Helicopter Valley was a major North Vietnamese infiltration route. The Marines encountered the enemy there and whipped them soundly but suffered heavy losses themselves, including five helicopters, hence, the name of the valley.

Since Operation Hastings, the Marines have conducted another successful campaign. Operation Prairie. Both efforts have driven the enemy further and further west toward the border of Laos.

What the Marines have won they are forced to watch closely. No longer are large infiltration parties discovered making their way across the demilitarized zone, through the coastal plains area, or in the foothills. But the possibility always exists that the North Vietnamese will launch a direct assault to the south through any one of several points.

The Marines have not stayed in the areas they have won in full strength. But they have maintained constant surveillance of nearly every infiltration point through special reconnaissance teams. These teams parachute into the most remote areas and live off the land for weeks, while supplying their headquarters with crucial intelligence.

On the western edge of Quang Tri Province is a village by the name of Khe San. It is in a remote area in the mountains and is manned by a company of Marines. It is considered one of the few major infiltration routes to the south, which is not heavily armed by U.S. Forces.

Some military experts fear that should the North Vietnamese army march in strength toward Khe San, that it would be cut off and become another Dien Bien Phu. But, Khe San, the experts vow, is not going to be a soft touch for the North Vietnamese.

The Marines have constructed an airstrip at Khe San, and U.S. Army Special Forces camps dot the area, on the lookout for a march to the south. If the North Vietnamese come, Marines from Dong Ha and other units will be air lifted into Khe San and landed at the air strip.

Marine tacticians are also counting strongly upon an ace they have up their sleeve that will make the enemy ante plenty if they choose to buck heads with the Marine Corps. Only 12 miles from Dong Ha, an artillery battery of 175 millimeter guns are in place. The guns are located so they will be able to fire the 37 miles to Khe San with devastating effects on the enemy.

The big guns have the range to reach the most distant northwest corner of the demilitarized zone and are also capable of firing far out to sea. Offshore, Navy cruisers and gunships control the seacoast. The Marine artillery batteries are set up to make the enemy pay dearly, no matter which way they decide to come.

All of these plans depend on the weather and our ability to first spot the infiltrators and then clobber them with our firepower.

Brig. Gen. Lowell English, assistant commander of the Third Division, said, "It's going to be just as tough for them as it's going to be for us. In fact it'll be a lot tougher for them. They have to carry everything on their backs."

Then English said, with typical Marine confidence, "every day they wait to launch their attack, we build our strength."

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Marine Jokers At Work-Prank Letter Warns Civilians

October 31, 1966

Dong Ha, South Viet Nam--Sometimes the things Marines think up to bedevil one another take on the complexities of a practical joke.

Very soon, wives or mothers and fathers of Marines returning from their tours of duty here are going to receive a very official looking letter, written by a few Marine pranksters, that momentarily, will throw them into a panic.

The letterhead looks very official--"U.S. Naval Medical Center, Da Nang, Republic of Viet Nam." But there is no Naval Medical Center at Da Nang.

The letter warns the unsuspecting Marine's family that he may (1) scorn civilian dress and walk around most of the time semi-nude and/or (2) insist on building a machine gun bunker in the front yard.

The letter also warns that the returning Marine may recruit all the young men in the neighborhood into a series of athletic events such as—foxhole digging, sand bag filling, night patrols, stealing strategic material from local businesses, practice loading bombs into the family car, and setting up perimeter patrols for the entire neighborhood.

The letter asks that the family and loved ones be patient with the Marine who wants to walk around all the time with his pistol and rifle, and to be tolerant if he tries to buy everything at less than half the asking price.

It also cautions the family not to get upset when the ex-Marine accuses the grocer of being a thief and refuses to enter any business place that doesn't have its windows protected by steel mesh. It will also be common for the ex-Marines to strain everything they drink to make sure they don't swallow broken glass.

Families are warned to be particularly careful when the returning Marine is in the company of young women. The only American girls he may have seen were the young children of servicemen or were married to personnel who outranked him. Family members are urged to take advantage of the ex-Marine's momentary shock and quickly move the young ladies out of his reach.

Other sights which may send the ex-Marine into shock are: people dancing, television, and the foamy head on a cold beer.

In a relatively short time, the letter advises the Marine's profanity will decrease enough to permit him to associate with mixed groups, and soon after, he will speak English as well as most Americans.

Two habits, however, may be hard to break, the letter warns--The returnee may complain about sleeping in a room and may refuse to go to sleep anywhere without his mosquito net.

The Marine authors of the prank letter list a number of definite don'ts for the serviceman's family to follow:

Don't mention anything about a picnic, going to the beach, or taking an overnight camping trip.

Don't serve canned foods, powdered milk, instant coffee, hot dogs, chili, rice, or any dehydrated potatoes or eggs. Doing so could trigger a wild rage.

The letter cautions the ex-Marine's family and friends to refrain from any mention of exotic Asia. (He's lived through too many monsoons, typhoons, and 135 degree temperatures to believe Asia is exotic.)

Though the Marines who drafted the letter did it for a joke, the letter contains sharp rings of truth. The battle hardened men who have served here will have to adjust to civilian life. The civilians won't adjust to them.

Though these men returning from battle may act a little different, they are still Americans. Americans who made an adjustment to war, death, and the loss of many close buddies...

They did not make the adjustment overnight to the misery and hardships of war, and we can't expect them to make immediate adjustments to civilian life.

It's going to take a lot of patience-ours and theirs.

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: All Admire Him-Kasler Exploits Under Air Force Lid

October 30, 1966

Saigon, South Viet Nam—The United States Air Force is not talking about 40-year-old Maj., James H. Kasler, the Indianapolis ace who was shot down in August and is now a captive of the North Vietnamese.

The Defense Department has slapped a lid on Kasler's exploits. Officials fear his captors will, "make him live hard," if too much publicity is generated.

A mention of his name, howerver, around Air Force people, brings an immediate spark of admiration to their eyes.

After worming around Tan San Nhut for few hours it as possible to find some people who knew Kasler and had talked to him. (Their names will be withheld at their request.)

"His eyes and his aggressiveness made him an ace," one man explained.

"He always came in from a mission clean—no bombs, no rounds left for his guns and darn little fuel.

"He'd roll over a target zone and see 15 things other pilots didn't.

"His Hoosier voice would come in on the radio saying: 'did you see the glint off that ack-ack barrel and the two trucks parked in the trees? There's a big bunker down there too.' "

Kasler, the spokesman continued, "would demolish everything he'd seen with cannon fire or bombs."(from his F-105 Thunderchief), the speaker said.

Kasler, a veteran of World War II and Korea, hated anti-aircraft and missile sites, the speaker observed.

Another spokesman saw the major's career this way: "Kasler emerged in this war as an ace, just like a fullback in football emerges as an All-American.

"Kasler was always in there with the ball, leading the way. He was one hell of a pilot."

After a mission, the speaker said, it is usual procedure to send an unarmed reconnaissance plane over the strike zone to assess the damage. "Not for Kasler though," the speaker said emphatically. "Kasler assessed his own damage to keep an unarmed plane from making the run. That's the kind of guy he was."

Here's another view of the hero, whose wife and three children live in Indianapolis: "He reminded me a lot of Gary Cooper.

"Kasler spoke in that soft Hoosier drawl and was a real likable guy. I remember after the major started getting publicity, a photographer wanted to get a picture of him standing beside his plane.

"When the photographer got there the major had his whole ground crew around him. The cameraman said he wanted a picture only of Kasler and his plane. "'Boy, I'll tell you something,' Kasler replied. 'Without these guys I can't fly. You can't take my picture without them.'" the spokesman recalled.

Col. Kasler, the speaker declared, was the kind of man every pilot could learn from. His big interest was the young pilots and he helped them all he could every chance he got.

"And he wasn't a big shot about it either," the speaker said.

Kasler's wife and their children are confidently awaiting their hero's return. Kasler and his wife are graduates of Shortridge High School and attended Indiana University.

The ace's parent live at Zanesville, Ind.

Kasler was shot down just after he'd returned from a short rest period. Ironically, his capture came at a time Air Force wheels were turning to take him out of the air and put him on a banquet tour of the U.S. Maj. Kasler reportedly has been recommended for the Congressional Medal of Honor for his role in Viet Nam.

A French newspaper correspondent reports from Hanoi that Maj. Kasler is recovering from a broken leg, suffered when he bailed out of his aircraft, which was hit by anti-aircraft fire. He is reportedly receiving good treatment, according to the news communique.

Perhaps the major will receive the Congressional Medal of Honor and his freedom at the same time—soon.

###

On 8 August 1966, on his 91st combat mission, Maj. Kasler's F-105 was shot down over North Vietnam. Captured by the North Vietnamese, he was a POW until 4 March 1973. He was tortured repeatedly by his Communist captors, in an effort to get him to cooperate with their propaganda claims.

Kasler shared the infamous Room 7 of the "Hanoi Hilton" with other great heroes like Robinson Risner, James Stockdale, Bud Day, John McCain, Larry Guarino, and Jeremiah Denton. He never cooperated with the North Vietnamese and survived to return home in March, 1973, after six and one-half years in captivity.

In July 1974 Kasler was assigned as vice commander of the 366th Tactical Fighter Wing at Mountain Home AFB, Idaho and remained in that capacity until his retirement as a colonel on 1 May 1975.

Aerial Victories: 6 confirmed and 3 damaged

Medals: Air Force Cross with two OLC's, Silver Star with one OLC, Legion of Merit, Distinguished Flying Cross with 8 OLCs, Purple Heart with one OLC, Air Medal with 10 OLCs, and the Bronze Star with V for valor.

Above update info courtesy: linky

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Gunboat Patrols Look For Cong-Ambush, Infiltrations, Weapons

October 29, 1966

Cat Lo, South Viet Nam--This is one of five United States Naval bases in South Viet Nam, which are conducting two important operations in the War, Operation Market Time, and Operation Game Warden.

In the Market Time operation, swift 50-foot gunboats patrol the more than 1,000 miles of coastline, seeking out trawlers and junks and searching them for contraband and weapons.

The second system uses smaller armed boats to patrol the thousands of twisting miles of rivers and streams of the Mekong Delta. Viet Cong ambushes, mortar attacks, and mine explosions are common occurrences on the river patrol.

The two operations in progress are designed to throttle infiltration and cut off supply lines to the VC.

Aiding the Navy in the operation are several larger ships from the United States Coast Guard. The success of the projects has been good. Large numbers of firearms and foodstuffs have been intercepted. The largest haul of either operation was made during June, when a Coast Guard cutter captured more than eight tons of weapons and ammunition and took one prisoner, near the mouth of the Bassac River and the South China Sea, 60 miles south of Cat Lo.

Lt. (jg) Charles P. Eddy, 25, Houston, Tex., is only one of the many heroes who have emerged from these naval operations. Eddy won the Bronze star Jan. 9 for his role in capturing two junks on which 17 rifles and five tons of ammunition were hidden.

Eddy said his crew and two other boats attempted to stop two junks for a routine search. Skippers of the two junks refused to stop and opened fire. Eddy's boat was riddled with bullets and he returned fire with .50 and .3o caliber machine guns. Five Viet Cong aboard the two junks were killed.

Eddy and Chief Petty Officer Robert H. Hempstead, Winchester, Va., each received the Bronze Star for their actions.

"Our only casualties, "Eddy said, "were two dead chickens. Our supper, by the way," he added.

Cmdr. Donald J. McMillan, Suisum City, Calif., is a 16 year Navy veteran and the zone commander for Game Warden and Market Time.

"I believe we're really doing something here," the commander said. "We don't have action all the time, but we are keeping the pressure on the Viet Cong."

To see how one of the patrols on Market Time functioned, we hopped a ride on Lt. Peter C. Hilstrom's No. 69 Swift Boat. Hilstrom, 28, comes from Lake Oswego, Ore. He's young and he's only been in the Navy four and a half years, but he has the respect and admiration of his crew. Though Hilstrom's all Navy and demands every man aboard do their job, he's never too busy to smile or give them a pat on the back.

Hilstrom's craft is powered by two 490-horse power diesel engines, which will push the boat along at more than 30 miles an hour. The hull and superstructure are all aluminum, and serve as the platform for an arsenal of weapons.

Included in the armaments are twin .50 caliber machine guns in a forward turret, a single .50 caliber on the stern, and a direct fire 86 millimeter mortar. The five-man crew can choose their personal arms from five automatic rifles, a shotgun, and five .38 caliber pistols.

Hilstrom has been in Viet Nam since September, 1965, and though he's seen his share of action, he's still looking for his first big haul.

"We jokingly call this the Bore War," Hilstrom said. "But we'd sure like to get it over with."

Hilstrom's crew was composed of Chief Boatswain's Mate, Clarence (Duke) Ellington, 42, Miami, Okla., who's an old salt veteran of 24 years in the Navy; Gunner's Mate Roy E. Stafford, 33, Texas City, Tex., a 15 year Navy vet; Seaman Robert McDonald, 22, Riverside, Calif., cook, engineman and gunner; Ronald L. Mick, 23, Plainville, Kas., radioman; and the youngest member of the crew, Michael C. Youle, 19, Pekin, Ill.

Youle was graduated from Columbus, Ind., High School, while his father was stationed at Bakalar Air Base. His father is a 30-year man in the Air Force.

Hilstrom steered the Swift Boat away from the Cat Lo dock at noon sharp and guided her slowly past Vung Tau and into the South China Sea for a 24-hour patrol.

The first four or five hours were slow. No unusual activity was sighted. The deep water off Vung Tau was crowded wtih ships at anchor. They were waiting, Hilstrom said, to enter the Saigon River channel and travel the 40 miles inland to Saigon where they would unload their cargoes. Among the ships at anchor was the Baton Rouge Victory, which was heavily damaged by a Viet Cong mine in the Saigon River, Aug 27. The stricken ship was having a patch put on a long tear in her hull by Navy Harbor Clearance personnel.

Shortly before sunset, the activity picked up considerably when the fishing fleet began coming in with their catch. Hilstrom gave each boat a wary eye. He made no effort to stop and search every one of the small junks. He depended upon his training and intuition to tip him to suspicious acts before he ordered a craft stopped and searched.

During the night, nearly 15 boats were searched but no contraband or Viet Cong were discovered. The crew of the No. 69 boat took no chances. While McDonald and Mick searched the junks and trawlers, Stafford and Chief Ellington kept their machine guns trained on the boat.

During the night, we received a request to meet a radar escort destroyer, the USS Finch, and pick up a crewmember that had an abscessed tooth. We were to take him to the Naval Hospital at Vung Tau for treatment. About 10 a.m. the next day, we met the destroyer and picked up Seaman Norman Feuti, 20, Mapleville, R.I. Feuti's right jaw was swollen badly and he didn't feel like talking.

Members of the No. 69 crew tried to mooch some ice cream from the destroyer's executive officer, but when the exec checked the stores, he discovered the Finch was out of ice cream. It was a draw. The exec wanted a pair of dry cell batteries, which Hilstrom could not provide.

The 69 boat headed south about 11:30 a.m. and by 1:15 its relief boat was spotted and the recognition signals were passed. We headed for the hot, smelly mooring at Cat Lo. The patrol was over.

Cat Lo is an old French Army river base. The Vietnamese villagers in the swampy area depend upon fishing and salt making for their income.

"One thing is for sure," Hilstrom said, "these guys don't put salt on their fish or this place wouldn't smell so bad."

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Monkeys Stay As Mascots-Fellows At Vietnam Base Sad 'cause Someone Got Their Goat'

October 28, 1966

Cat Lo, South Viet Nam—There's a big investigation in progress here over the assassination of Lyndon.

The Secret Service and the FBI need not get upset. It wasn't the President.

It was a goat which had been adopted and affectionately dubbed Lyndon by Navy personnel here.

Cat Lo is a United States naval base near the South China Sea from which the Navy and Coast Guard are conducting operations Game Warden and Market Time. The dual activities include patrols of the rivers and coastline of Viet Nam in an effort to stop Viet Cong infiltration and the resupply of the Viet Cong with food and arms.

In every aspect, the investigation of Lyndon's disappearance is unconventional and fails to conform with proper tactics as prescribed by the United States Supreme Court.

It is reported that Lyndon wandered into the base about three months ago, and was instantly adopted as camp mascot by Chief Petty Officer Clarence (Duke) Ellington, 42, Miami, Okla. Ellington and one of his pals, Robert McDonald, 22, Riverside, Calif., a seaman, didn't ask the rest of the camp if they wanted a goat for a mascot. But, since there were three pet monkeys named Lady Bird, Sam, and Suzy already being pampered, Ellington and McDonald didn't see why anyone would object to having a goat named Lyndon. After all, it was a pretty good name.

No one did object...for a while. Then, Lyndon grew up, and, as he did so, members of the camp quickly got fed up. For a short time, the men put up with Lyndon's antics...chewed up boots, fatigues, underwear, and even a few mattresses and pillows.

Lyndon then developed a little trick which likely led to his undoing. Around each of the Quonset huts on the base, sandbags are stacked, nearly window high, to give protection in case of mortar attacks. Lyndon, true to a
goat's tendencies, loved to climb on the sandbags. That maneuver caused no problem. It was Lyndon's next move that caused the furor. From the sandbags, Lyndon would leap to the metal roofs of the Quonset huts.

Once on the corrugated roofs, to the disgust of the inhabitants, Lyndon would clank and thump, end-to-end of first one hut then another. Those asleep he awakened. Those just off duty and trying to get some sleep he kept awake and he aggravated and agitated all in between those states.

Lyndon did not discriminate. He treated the occupants of all the huts, officers and enlisted men, with his antics at all hours.

Ellington and another of Lyndon's keepers, Michael C. Youle, 19, Pekin, Ill., said their mascot dodged at least a truck load of shoes and managed to avoid a score of ambushes designed to do him in.

"He didn't make that much noise," Youle said in Lyndon's defense. Ellington and McDonald agreed, but their defense failed to overcome the designs of the protesters.

As the trio stated it, friendly forces lured Lyndon behind a shed and cut his throat.

Youle, Ellington and McDonald have eliminated themselves as suspects and look quizzically upon nearly all the other Americans in camp.

"An officer wouldn't do it," McDonald said. "It wouldn't be their style."

"One of the Vietnamese didn't do it," Youle said. "Because they would have taken the carcass to eat."

The trio's next investigative technique is going to lead to a lot of headaches.

Ellington, who pals around with several other chiefs stationed at Cat Lo, is going to get all of them drunk, maybe not all at once, but eventually, and as he gets the suspects in their cups, he plans to grill them about Lyndon's death.

Mick liked Ellington's idea, but spotted a potential flaw.

"You guys know how you are when you get drunk. I know how I am. I forget stuff. Suppose someone does tell us he got Lyndon, and when we sober up, we forget who told us they did it?" Mick asked.

"That's alright," Ellington said. "We just keep getting them drunk until we do remember," the chief said, bringing all his 24 years of Navy experience to bear.

Solution of the slaying of Lyndon may be only the first of several homicides to occur at Cat Lo. Lady Bird and Sam, two pet monkeys, are causing paper work to back up at the base.

Lady Bird keeps unscrewing the cap on the bottle of mimeograph machine fluid and spilling the contents. She also keeps the contents of every one's desk topsy-turvy.

Sam is living on the ragged edge. He was made an honorary electrician's mate the other day while he was helping an electrician work on one of the patrol boats which developed a circuit malfunction.

The electrician could not find the short after hours of tracing the circuits.

Sam clambered around the ship and began to gnaw on the wires. He found the short and got a jolt of electricity that sent him into the air about the heighth of the radar mast.

For that heroic action he was made an electrician's mate. Since then, Sam has chewed through wires in the officer's quarters and two other barracks, putting them into total darkness.

As Sam sat contentedly in the administration building, he gnawed the cord to the electric fan. One of the clerks said angrily, "Sam, you're either going to get demoted or electrocuted if you don't stop fooling around."

Sam dropped the cord after the harsh tones, and ran to Lady Bird's arms for comfort. Together, they managed to scoot a ream of paper off the desk to the floor.

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: 'Attack Is Sure To Come'-Marines Await Monsoon Push

October 27, 1966

Dong Ha, South Viet Nam—The crack Third Marine Division is dug in and waiting for an attack by the North Vietnamese across the Demilitarized Zone, which the Marines have said is sure to come when the monsoon season begins.

Dong Ha is 10 miles from the supposedly Demilitarized Zone and, judging from the intense fortifications surrounding this camp, the Marines definitely intend to stay here.

An entire battalion of Marines is defending the camp perimeter, and they are armed with every conceivable weapon, including tanks and recoilless rifles. Other units of the Third Marines are deployed strategically throughout Quang Tri Province at each of the known infiltration routes used by the North Vietnamese.

Six months ago, a major American buildup began at Dong Ha. The buildup is just shifting into high gear and in a few more weeks, it is predicted, this entire region will soon be unfit for either Viet Cong or North Vietnamese habitation.

Since Aug. 3, in Conducting Operation Prairie, the Third Marines have accounted for 1,125 North Vietnamese killed and another 1,507 probable kills, along with the capture of large amounts of arms and supplies.

Fighting in this area is tough. The jungles are so dense that it is hard to see more than a few feet ahead and progress is gained a foot at a time by hacking out a trail with machetes.

If our units run into an ambush or other difficulty, smoke grenades are of no use to mark positions for air strikes. The troops in trouble must fire smoke rockets through the trees to get them high enough for the spotter planes to see.

Intelligence reports show that the North Vietnamese occupy heavily fortified trenches north of the 17th parallel. The entrenched enemy is taking a terrific pounding from Naval gunfire and air strikes in these positions. If ever a "No Man's Land" existed, it is that patch of earth called the Demilitarized Zone.

A helicopter flight over the DMZ makes it hard to imagine that any human being would attempt to go through that area, let alone try to survive there. There are stretches, which extend for two miles in all directions, where not a tree or a blade of grass is left standing.

The uncountable bomb craters and shell holes nearly overlap through all of the lowlands. All of the hillsides are scarred by artillery fire and scorched with napalm.

But the enemy is persistent. They keep infiltrating into South Viet Nam and their presence across the DMZ prevents the Marines from occupying and restoring order in the small villages on the South Viet Nam side of the border.

Early last week, it was learned that the Second Battalion of the Fifth Corps swept through the Village of Huong Than, seeking the enemy. The area is so insecure that the sweep had to be conducted in daylight. The Marines had to fall back at nightfall to get out of range of the nightly North Vietnamese mortar attacks on the village.

The Marines and United States Special Forces troops have stationed long range reconnaissance patrols all through the edges of the DMZ and along the Laotian border, in an effort to instantly spot enemy troop movements.

Lt. Paul Berger, who briefed members of the press on the recent fighting near the DMZ said, "We believe they are waiting for the rains to start to begin their movement south."

"It's going to be tough on us to move troops to stop them, due to the weather. But, it isn't going to be easy on them either."

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Dig The Foxholes Deep-Old Sarge Wises Up New Marines

October 26, 1966


Dong Ha, South Viet Nam--Sergeant Major John W. Kozak squinted his eyes and looked south toward a hillside less than a mile away which was being pounded by air strikes and artillery fire.

As one of the fighter's napalm bombs exploded and the huge red-orange ball of fire climbed toward the ridge, Kozak blinked and said, "If there are any of them left we'll sure as hell catch a mortar attack tonight."

Kozak is a veteran of 30 years in the Marine Corps, but fighting in the rugged jungles of South Viet Nam and the fact he is pushing 50 years, has nearly convinced him war is a young man's game.

For 30 years he has known no home but the Marine Corps. During World War II, he served in the Pacific and fought on Guadalcanal, New Guinea, and Iwo Jima, and he's been fighting ever since.

Kozak is only 5 feet 10 inches tall, but he's just about that wide and there isn't an ounce of fat on him. His arms are very short and so large he has trouble rolling up the sleeves of his fatigue jacket.

He looks tough and he's just as tough as he looks. His squad, in the field five days, had made a helicopter clearing atop a ridge, within one and a half miles of the demilitarized zone, to take on replacements and supplies.

Three correspondents, one of them a Marine, went in with the resupply helicopters. Sgt. Kozak's voice could be heard clearly above the roar of the helicopters--"Get down the hill and dig a hole...We don't have any holes up here."

He spoke with such authority that even though two of the correspondents didn't have shovels, they were ready to use their helmets to start digging. Staff Sgt. Norman MacKenzie, Brockton, Mass., a Marine Corps battle correspondent, bailed the correspondents out by explaining, "They're civilians, Sarge."

Kozak slapped a swagger stick he'd fashioned out of a tree branch against his leg and said, "OK, but tell them to keep down."

MacKenzie led the reporters forward to the command post bunker where we were met by Maj. Raymond J. O'Leary. O'Leary is a former Marine Corps recruiter from Brookville, Ind.

From 1956 to 1959, O'Leary was the recruiting officer in Indianapolis. He's been in the Marine Corps 22 1/2 years and will be promoted soon to lieutenant colonel. Shortly after our introduction, Capt. Francis (Frank) White, York, Pa., a 1955 Notre Dame graduate, came up with a report on the battle in which one of their platoons was engaged.

The platoon was sweeping a four-hill range 12 miles northwest of Dong Ha in elephant grass eight feet tall, when it ran head-on into approximately 40 North Vietnamese troops.

The Marines exchanged heavy fire with the enemy in an engagement which lasted about 30 minutes. Seven VC were listed as killed. Three Marines suffered wounds though none were killed.

When the enemy broke off the fight, the Marines pulled back with their wounded and ordered air strikes and an artillery barrage laid into the area. Within minutes an artillery spotting plane had pinpointed the fleeing North Vietnamese and marked their positions with smoke rockets.

It was then that fighter after fighter pounded the hills with high explosives, napalm, and machine gun fire, while artillery shells raked the area. After a 30 minute barrage, the Marines went back into the area and found two more dead VC, an extensive tunnel complex, and a large cave with several openings.

(This is the battle which was in progress as the correspondents landed.)

After acknowledging Capt. York's information, Maj. O'Leary said, "The only thing that keeps us in the ball game here is our mobility and fire power. And to increase our mobility, we've got to have more helicopters."

Kozak and Maj. O'Leary knew the battle they'd just won hadn't accomplished much.

The area Maj. O'Leary had chosen to occupy as a command center straddled a major infiltration route for the North Vietnamese. B-52 air strikes and artillery rounds had left dozens of deep craters in the brown and red earth and only shards of trees and vegetation were left.

Maj. O'Leary earlier had requested 30 more Marines to hold the thinly spaced line around the perimeter. Sgt. Kozak left the shelter to meet the fresh troops on the crest of the ridge.

As the major continued to explain the current situation, the sound of helicopters approaching came from the south.


Sgt. Kozak met the helicopters and quickly knocked the new men into line, telling them to start digging holes.

"Deep holes," he bellowed. "Those guys will mortar us tonight, trying to get even for today. So dig'em deep."