South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Vietnam Health Standards Lacking (previously unpublished)

November 4, 1966

Saigon, South Viet Nam—Only a few days ago, I left the press center at Da Nang for a stroll. After a short walk, I noticed a Vietnamese woman running down the street

She was crying hysterically and carrying a tiny bundle in her arms, which was covered with a white cloth. She hurried past a Marine sentry, after stopping there a moment.

I asked the Marine what was going on, and he said, sadly, that the woman was carrying her dead baby to the drug store.

After a look around Da Nang and further scrutiny in Saigon, the following observations were made. Most of the children are half naked and malnourished. Many of them bear scars and ulcers from ring worm. Flies are everywhere, but they are particularly thick around the tiny food stands. Rats and other vermin are everywhere. It is a marvel that the Vietnamese and their children are able to survive the ever present threat of filth and disease, let alone the Viet Cong.

At Saigon, I met an official from the United States Public Health Service. We discussed the total lack of health standards among the Vietnamese. Sarcastically, he began, "Oh, you haven't heard? They passed an anti-defecation ordinance in Saigon. But the word hasn't reached the provinces yet."

According to the health official, the only health programs which exist in the country are still on paper.

The official said Viet Nam is filled with rabid animals, and no quarantine or regulation of suspect animals exists. Cholera, Bubonic Plague, Typhus, Typhoid Fever, Yellow Fever, Malaria, various forms of worms and flukes, which infect the lungs and liver, are common to the Vietnamese.

And, the official continued, venereal diseases, caused by filth alone, exist which have never been seen by doctors in America.

The birth mortality rate is extremely high. Many of the children die in their first month, and thousands of others die before they are three years old.

"If they live a month," the spokesman said, "they have a good chance to live through a year. After that, they have built up such a resistance to every disease that it takes a bullet or a tank to kill them."

"But," he added, "although they literally have to swim in filth to become ill, plague and cholera take a high toll."

The water in Viet Nam can kill you or make you sick in a variety of ways. First, there is typhoid fever and severe dysentery. Much of the water also contains the larva of a worm which bores through the soles of the feet and emerges as the Fiery Serpent, which was spoken of in Biblical times.

"This parasite," the official explained, "once through the soles of the feet, begins to grow. As it grows, it works its way up the shin, just under the skin, and emerges just below the knee."

"It's a common sight to see a Vietnamese villager squatting down and carefully pulling a worm out of their leg by winding it up on a stick."

"Our treatment," the health official said with a sarcastic chuckle, "is different. We wind the worm up on a glass rod. Haven't we progressed?"

Little is being done to control the huge numbers of rats which infest every town. Cholera and plague epidemics could break out at any time, the official warned.

Neither is there a program to destroy the breeding spots of mosquitoes which spread malaria and a host of other ailments.

The South Vietnamese government has no plan for mass immunization, and no facilities to administer one.

"An un-inoculated American," the spokesman said, "couldn't live here more than two weeks before dying. Even with inoculations, we lose a lot of men from the lines with such ailments as malaria and jungle rot, and a variety of skin infections.

"But," the health official said, "one of our main concerns is the contracting of venereal disease from the Vietnamese. Many types of the disease have proven difficult to treat with current medicines and methods."

The American soldier's love of pets has created another serious problem, the official said. "Nothing is being done here to control rabies. Soldiers are great keepers of pets, and many of the pets become rabid."

"We tested 14 heads for rabies the other day, and nine of them were positives. One of the rabid animals had bitten 30 servicemen. All those men will be out of service for at least two weeks. I'd hate to guess how many Vietnamese people die from rabies," the official said with a sad shake of his head.

Almost incredulously, the official told of his visit to a Saigon packing house. "It would have made a Department of Agriculture inspector back in the states cry. The Vietnamese butcher all the animals on the floor, and they don't even have clean water to rinse off the carcasses.

"Old women carry in water from the river, and it is used over and over again, on carcass after carcass, until it's as black as your note book.

Sighing deeply, the beleaguered health official said, "I don't know what we're going to do here. Most of these people even refuse to use soap."

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Saigon's "Navy Mayor" In Trouble (previously unpublished)

November 4, 1966

Saigon, South Viet Nam--The antics of one high ranking officer in Saigon has left many of the military brass here embarrassed and amazed.

The man who has left them with a lump in their throats is Navy Captain Archie C. Kuntze, a 1942 graduate of the Naval Academy, and a native of Kenosha, Wisc.

He's currently awaiting trial by court martial at Treasure Island (California) on four charges which were pressed as a result of his alleged activities as the commanding officer of Naval Support Activities in Saigon.

One military source described Kuntze as, "a Fiorello LaGuardia type. (former mayor of New York City) who became deeply enmeshed in Saigon politics."

Kuntze, the source said, never failed to show up after a bombing in Saigon, dressed in his whites and armed with a snub nose .38 caliber pistol. He didn't come to help anyone, the source said. He came to have his picture taken.

"He was the darling of the press."

For two years, Kuntze headed the Naval Support activities, which spent more than $60 million a year and employed more than 7,000 people.

He was responsible for every post exchange, operation of all commissaries, billeting, the post office, money exchange, and numerous other duties.

He referred to himself as, "The Navy Mayor of Saigon," one officer reported. And according to several military men, he practically ran the town while living as highly as a Persian Prince.

One critic said, "While we didn't have enough water to shave with, he was living in a villa like a king, swigging booze from a bar that supposedly cost more than $3,000."

In mid-1965, an investigation of Kuntze began. Several things turned up which caused him to be relieved of command during August. One matter involved hair spray.

Kuntze reportedly ordered 150,000 cans of women's hair spray for sale in the post exchanges. What puzzled folks was the fact that only 750 women were in Viet Nam who had PX privileges.

Captain Kuntze is charged with giving false testimony, the violation of an order, making official statements which were intended to deceive, and of conduct unbecoming an officer.

It is reported that the black market boomed while Kuntze ran Saigon.

But, the black market is booming now also. The people who expressed disdain for Kuntze say, to his credit, that while he ran the PXs they were much better stocked.

Even his enemies don't knock Kuntze as a Navy man. They know he's a veteran of World War II and winner of the Legion of Merit and Bronze Star during the Korean War. He was also wounded during the Korean War.

Perhaps he did slip. The Navy will find out why. And, as one observer said, "Maybe they'll find a way to keep military personnel out of politics and the temptations involved."

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Marine Reporter (previously unpublished)

October 31, 1966

Da Nang, South Viet Nam--Since 1942, war has been Jim Lucas' job. He was a combat correspondent for the Marine Corps during World War II, and has been a staff writer for Scripps-Howard Newspapers since 1945.

He has seen Americans die, and has written of their bravery from Tarawa, to the Yalu River, and, from there to the steaming jungles of Viet Nam. And, he'll never get used to it, he said.

As a Marine during World War II, he received the Bronze star and a battlefield promotion for his actions during the bloody battle for Tarawa. Unscathed in that action, he has twice suffered injuries in Viet Nam.

Lucas won the Pulitzer Prize in 1954 for his coverage of the Korean War, and an Ernie Pyle award. He won a second Ernie Pyle award for his columns on the Viet Nam fighting.

Lucas has to be considered the dean of the war correspondents now in Viet Nam. No one out-hustles him. People in Indianapolis used to read his columns in the now-defunct Indianapolis Times.

Now 52 years old, Lucas calls his home Washington, D.C., but he'd be hard to find there. He's always where the fighting is, dressed in combat fatigues, and sifting out stories.

He's a very kind guy to any rookie reporter who even acts as though he's interested in finding out what this war is about. He has slight regard for the majority of correspondents who are supposed to be covering the war, but seldom leave Saigon.

"All most of them do is sit around all day and wait for the 5 p.m. briefing...And then they try to think up silly questions to ask the briefers, and complain because they don't get enough information."

"The government is doing their leg work for them," Lucas said. "and the Saigon Commandos have the nerve to complain about it.

"There's never going to be a substitute for getting out and getting a story," Lucas said emphatically.

Jim began his newspaper career in 1934 in Muskogee, Okla. In 1938, he moved to the Tulsa Tribune and covered a variety of beats. In 1942, he joined the Marine Corps and served with the Second and Fourth Marine Division in eight major battles: Guadalcanal, the Russell Islands, New Georgia, Tarawa, Apemama, Saipan, Tinian, and Iwo Jima.

When he left the Corps, he went to work for Scripps-Howard, and he's been on the move ever since. He covered Admiral Richard E. Byrd's expedition to the South Pole in 1947, and then the first atom bomb test at Bikini Atoll.

In 1950 he headed for Korea when the fighting broke out, and he stayed until the truce.

After the Korean War, Lucas smelled news in French Indo-China. He spent 18 months in Hanoi covering the action before he returned to the states. He took a few junkets to Europe, and covered the crisis in Lebanon.

Lucas returned to Southeast Asia in 1959 to visit the newly created Republic of South Viet Nam. Lucas saw early signs of what was to come and wrote about it, but too many other people were blind to the issues.

He left Viet Nam in 1960 and returned in 1964. The face and facts of war had not changed, and neither had Lucas.

"It still shocks me and hurts me to see a man die. I still haven't learned," Lucas said softly, "not to get too close to a guy. I damned near cry sometimes," he said with a weary shake of his head.

"War," he continued, "brings out the best or the worst in a man. Usually, it's the best. War makes a man selfless. A man has to think of the other guy all the time, and I like being with men under those circumstances."

Lucas is single. "A guy in this business shouldn't have a family," he said seriously.

Of the fighting up to now in Viet Nam Lucas appraised, "I think our people are largely doing right. And things are coming to a head here pretty fast. The enemy's back has been broken. We didn't fight this war the way the French did theirs. The French fought during the day and let the enemy have the night. We've never let the pressure off."

"The helicopter's value in this war is unmeasurable. The First Cavalry Division can pick up and move two regiments-twice in a day. Mobility has made the difference here," the veteran correspondent said.

Lucas' hair is gray, and he wears glasses. He speaks with a soft, precise drawl. He knows he is often criticized by other correspondents, usually the Saigon Commandos he so thoroughly disdains.

"I've heard they say I'm still writing the GI JOE and ME stuff, which was alright for World War II, but out of place in this war. Baloney," Lucas said with a grin. "Our guys are just the same. And human interest stories are never out of place."

Lucas has a book coming out soon entitled, "Dateline Viet Nam," published by Award House. It includes his dispatches from January 1964 up to the battle of A-Shau during May, 1966.

Lucas hopes a lot of people buy the book. He's tired, needs the money, and a long rest.

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Sabotage In Saigon (previously unpublished)

October 29, 1966

Saigon, South Viet Nam--The night sky was lit up with a huge red ball of flame. Smoke rose several thousand feet northeast of Tan San Nhut airport as our C-130 entered the landing pattern one night last week.

Everyone on board knew something serious had happened, but no one knew what until we landed. Even then, only sketchy information was available.

The first details released stated that the Viet Cong instigated a fire fight with members of the 1st Infantry Division, who were guarding an ammunition dump at Long Bien. During the action, a VC mortar round struck a pile of artillery shells and set them off.

It was reported that the blast shook the ground like an earthquake. Tremors of the explosion were felt for 15 miles in all directions. People in downtown Saigon said they initially believed a giant claymore mine had exploded.

Later it was reported that a mortar round had not touched off the blast. Military sources said they believe the ammunition was blown up by a planted bomb. The brief battle which took place before the explosion was a staged VC diversion to allow them time to plant the bomb.

Two Americans were reported killed and seven others were wounded when an estimated 10,000 rounds of eight inch artillery shells were detonated.

To many people here, it was just another incident to be fastened to the long chain of bombings, mortar attacks, and terrorist incidents which the VC commit daily.

Only a mile and a half from Tan Son Nhut, an airport which handles and maintains millions of dollars worth of military aircraft a day, VC troops are known to be operating, but they haven't been caught.

One of the men who patrols the airport area is Vietnamese Marine First Lieutenant Nguyen Phat Roanh. He believes there is at least a 10-man platoon of VC in his area. And even though many villagers in the area inform Roanh regarding movements of a few of the VC, Roanh's patrols have not caught them.

Why?

For Lt. Roanh and the Americans, the Viet Cong are faceless enemies. While he diligently patrols, as he approaches populated areas, the VC hide their weapons and walk through military lines posing as harmless villagers.

Roanh persists in chasing this so far phantom platoon of VC each night. He wonders how many of the people who ride by him on bicycles or walk carrying their small bundles are villagers or the demons he and his men have been pursuing.

For Lt. Roanh and his men, the only way they are going to learn who the enemy is, is for them to begin shooting.

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Weapons Used In Viet Different And Deadly

November 21, 1966

Da Nang, South Viet Nam--Not only is this war being fought under some most unusual ground rules, the weapons and tactics used by both sides, in what amounts to a guerrilla war, are different and deadly.

Some of the weapons include spider traps, peanut butter jars, beer cans, punji sticks, claymore mines, dud howitzer shells, barbed wire wrapped with detonating wire, trick hand grenades, and planned entrapments. Some of the weapons are used exclusively by the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese, but, gradually, both sides turn to using a good thing.

Spider traps are a favorite weapon of the Viet Cong. The trap consists of a series of holes over which camouflage is thrown. The VC place these traps, with an armed man inside each one, along routes which may be used frequently by American or South Vietnamese troops.

When the VC hear the Americans or South Vietnamese approaching, they crouch low in their holes and wait for the patrol to pass. After they pass, the VC toss off the camouflage cover and begin hurling grenades and firing automatic weapons from the ambush.

So dense is the foliage in most areas that the VC usually manage to escape into the jungle without casualties.

A peanut butter jar is quite a weapon when it is coupled with a hand grenade and a crafty American pilot in an artillery spotter plane. These pilots, flying in small aircraft, constantly try to spot Viet Cong movements from the air while flying at low altitudes. Their planes are armed only with smoke rockets to mark enemy positions and bring in air strikes or artillery.

Many of the pilots, tired of serving only as bird dogs, began saving peanut butter jars. In them they put a grenade from which the pin had been pulled. The sides of the jars prevent the detonating lever on the grenade from releasing.

The pilots take several of these little goodies with them on their missions. When they spot VC movements, they dutifully fire a smoke rocket, report the positions, and drop a few peanut butter jars. Impact shatters the jars and the explosions create quite a sting for the VC.

Beer cans are used by the VC in much the same fashion. A grenade is placed in a can with the pin pulled and a string is attached to the grenade. The string is stretched across a path. When the string is yanked, the grenade is pulled out of the can and explodes.

The beer can trick is used frequently by VC terrorists in conjunction with claymore mines in activities in the cities and hamlets.

Punji sticks and traps are now being used by both the American and VC forces. Punji sticks, sharp bamboo shafts, with the tips of each coated with poison made from dung, are placed in deep camouflaged holes. The traps also employ sharpened shafts of bamboo, which are driven through heavy boards. The traps are so constructed that when the trip wire is released, they spring out to strike and injure or kill those in their path. VC frequently place the punji sticks and traps along trails known to be used by American Forces.

American troops employ claymore mines, a directional weapon, in the defense of their lines. The VC also use claymore mines which are more primitive but just as deadly.

The VC claymore consists of a large metal dish. On the dish they place bits of chain, metal fragments, glass, bits of wire, or anything which could cause serious injury. Beneath the dish, several pounds of plastic explosives are placed, along with a detonator. The mine can be hidden under a straw hat, a wicker basket, or brush, and can be detonated by a trip wire, or by an individual, working from a safe distance.

A usual tactic, before the detonation of a claymore by the VC, is to start a fire fight a short distance from the spot where the mine is hidden. The shots draw people to the vicinity, and in towns, may draw the curious to the windows of their apartments.

After a crowd has gathered the mine is detonated.

"We have to chop up our old flashlight and radio batteries," one military source said. "We've found out the VC can get enough voltage out of them to set off a claymore."

The American claymore mine is highly refined but no more deadly than the VC weapon. An American claymore is contained in a plastic box, about the size of a two pound box of candy. It is filled with plastic explosive and hundreds of steel balls.

In the past, the VC have crept into our positions and turned the mines around. Then the VC have fired several shots and anxious perimeter guards have detonated the mines, resulting in self-inflicted casualties. It didn't take the Americans long to learn the trick. Our mines are now made so it is impossible for the enemy to tell the front from the back of a claymore. They learned about the changes the hard way.

Dud howitzer shells, fired at the VC by our artillery, sometimes are returned to our troops in the form of booby traps. The duds are recovered by the VC and are placed in trees or hidden in houses, and are detonated with a small battery.

One of the American weapons which has proven quite deadly is the intertwining of detonator cord with barbed wire which surrounds the perimeters of our static defenses. In the event of a VC attack, the cord is ignited. It burns at the rate of 23,000 feet per second, and hurls fragments of the barbed wire at the enemy.

Another American tactic in use is that of a unit permitting itself to be surrounded. A unit will move into an area and dig two sets of trenches. They occupy the outer defense only until an attack occurs. Then, they fall back to the inner circle of defenses and blow up the outer holes and trenches with mines they've planted.

In conjunction with the plan, the U.S. forces also call in artillery, air strikes, and reinforcements to mop up the VC drawn into the trap.

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Why In The Rain?-Angry Marine Has Toothache, Red Tape Blues

November 25, 1966

Dong Ha, South Viet Nam--Pfc. Robert Blackwell was seated in the rain by the flag pole, cussing and kicking rocks in the direction of the general's quarters.

The 21 year old Marine from Detroit, Mich., looked as though he was preparing to assault Gen. Lowell English's office.

When I asked what was troubling him, he cussed non-stop for nearly five-minutes, then looked at me and demanded, "What the hell are we doing sitting in the rain?"

We chatted a few moments. Aside from being obviously mad, he had a toothache, he didn't have any clean clothes, and needed socks and boots. He was frustrated by a maze of red tape trying to get clean clothes and new boots and socks from supply sergeants who did not know him.

I showed him where the press hut was and invited him to come in. "In a little while," he said. He walked off and I did not expect to see him again.

In about 20 minutes, he entered the press hut carrying a case of beer, and sat down on a cot.

Two Marine lieutenants looked in disbelief at the cruddy private, and were obvious eavesdroppers. Blackwell was so angry he didn't care when I warned him the lieutenants were listening.

"What can they do to me...send me to Viet Nam?"

Blackwell is a machine gunner assigned to the Third Battalion of the Fourth Marines in the Third Division. He is married and has no children. He's been in the Marine Corps 11 months and in Viet Nam since May. He has taken part in several operations, including Operation Hastings.

He said he'd been sent to Dong Ha from Phu Bia for dental work a few days earlier. But his aching tooth was abscessed and could not be pulled for awhile. Meantime, he was taking all the liquid pain killer he could swallow.

He said his clothes were supposed to be sent to him from Phu Bia, but they had not arrived. And when he tried to get new ones, all he got was double talk.

"I've had these same clothes on two weeks," he said. It was easy to believe him.

I suggested that we leave to see if we couldn't get a pair of boots and some clean clothes for him.

Our first stop was Regimental Supply. The room was filled with new boots and clothing. Blackwell explained his problem and a young private said, "We don't have any boots here for issue. You'll have to get a requisition from your supply sergeant and he'll have to pick up the boots"

The private directed us to a company supply sergeant's tent. Blackwell again explained his problems. A corporal said, "I'm not the sergeant. I can't sign a requisition. You go to that hut over there. The supply sergeant is in there."

Blackwell obeyed, and once more told his story to a trio of privates who listened patiently. When he was finished, they said in chorus, "The sergeant isn't here. You can wait for him. We can't sign a requisition."

Blackwell sat and fumed, cursing under his breath for about 25-minutes.

"Nuts to this place," he said. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Blackwell turned and walked away. For the next few minutes he busily darted in and out of tents asking time after time, "Hey you guys, got an extra pair of boots, socks, shorts, or fatigues in here? "

Within a half hour, Blackwell had bummed a set of clothes, minus boots. We went to his tent where he peeled off his old clothes and bathed.

"I think these pants were made for the Jolly Green Giant," he said has he tried to adjust the baggy new pants to his thin waist.

When he put on the new fatigue shirt, the sleeves completely hid his hands.

Then he put on his clean socks. "Boy do they feel good," he said. He reached over and picked up his old socks which were worn through...heel and toe.

"Look at these things. They're at attention. I'm going to have a little ceremony and burn these things."

As I walked out of the tent, Blackwell had opened a can of beer. In front of him he had lit a C-Ration heat tablet, and he held his socks over the small fire.

He sipped his beer and watched his old socks burn, but he was still wearing his old boots.

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Hurry Up And Wait!-Military Travel A Bit Sadistic

November 24, 1966

Da Nang, South Viet Nam--If American military personnel survive their contacts with the United States Air Force branch, which flies them around this country, they are a cinch to withstand any punishment the foe hands out.

First-hand knowledge makes one suspect the whole Air Force branch is filled with enemy agents, responsible for demoralizing our troops. Robert S. McNamara should investigate.

You know McNamara. He's the secretary from the Department of Defense who stopped the war over here a few weeks ago by making visits to the military bases.

Not being accustomed to military procedure, I didn't mind waiting from 1 p.m. to 7 p.m. for planes that were supposed to take off at 2:30 p.m. For a while I didn't. And then the waits stretched to eight hours or more.

Sometimes, after waiting eight hours, a cheerful voice would announce the flight had been cancelled.

After the long waits and finally getting aboard, I began noticing definite attempts by members of the crew to demoralize the passengers.

Usually, more than 70 of us would be crammed into buckets seats awaiting take off, when one of the pilots would tell us how we should conduct ourselves.

"Now, strap yourselves in," he'd begin. "And remain that way during all take offs and landings. There will be no smoking during take offs and landings. And, if you must smoke," he'd snarl, "please use the butt cans. Don't litter the aircraft."

Then, with all the tenderness of a traffic policeman, he'd say:

"If some of you become airsick, ask a crewman for a paper bag. Put your head in it and try not to make your fellow passengers sick. Also, this bag will become your permanent possession. Take it with you when you leave the aircraft."

Jauntily, the pilot would hop up to the flight deck, leaving the cattle in the hold, in the hands of a crew chief who generally spoke in unintelligible grunts.

"Gedjabez fasnd an no smokin'," the chief would growl.

The flights usually were in C-130 cargo planes, which feature air conditioned cabins. That's not as nice as it sounds. The air conditioner isn't turned on until the craft is airborne. It is often 25 minutes or longer from the time passengers board, until take off.

In the meantime, the heat in the cattle compartment builds up to more than 100 degrees, and there's no fresh air.

Finally, when the craft gets off the ground, cool air begins surging through the ducts. The only trouble is that within a few minutes, the cold air from the ducts create a sleet storm all through the passenger compartment. Those people not bombarded with ice get a cold shower.

The passengers must sit in rows facing each other, and it's so cramped everyone must interlock knees.

After 20 minutes or so in one of the bucket seats, it is inevitable and understandable that every passenger is going to have to change his position.

When that time comes, everyone gets kicked three or four times, and the more unfortunate are gouged and bumped with bayonets, rifles, canteens, and steel helmets.

Twice on one flight I reached for my cigarette lighter and discovered it was missing. I learned, when a tough looking sergeant sitting next to me glared, that I had my hand in his field jacket pocket, not mine.

During the pre-flight briefing the pilot also casually tells us, "Sorry folks, but all we have on board for you is water...no food. The water cans are placed in the front and rear of the plane. Help yourselves."

The pilots never tell the whole story. The reward for stumbling and tripping over 37 pairs of feet is to discover the water cans are empty. It can be a long, dry, hungry flight without a canteen or something from a field ration kit.

The seats on the C-130s undoubtedly were designed by Adolf Eichmann, but were too cruel to be used during World War II. The seats belts are arranged so each passenger must straddle an aluminum bar which supports the seat. It is impossible to rearrange the straps to gain a slight depression in the seat. After 15 minutes of flying, the passenger is carrying a very deep depression in his anatomy where none was intended.

It's so reassuring to sit, aching from stem to stern, unable to move for fear if you do everyone else will also. To be thirsty, hungry, and watch the crew chief slurp a cold can of Coke while, for all to see and hear, munch a thick ham sandwich.

Meanwhile, on the flight deck, the officers begin to dig into their sumptuous box lunches.

All those guys have just got to be enemy agents.

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: 'Tell My Wife Something'-Marines In Viet Missing Hoosier Hospitality

November 28, 1966

Da Nang, South Viet Nam--There are a couple of United States Marines here who claim Indianapolis as their home. And each wishes he were there.

Sgt. Glenn N. Grouse's wife Cynthia and their five children live in Indianapolis. Crouse is a graduate of Arsenal Technical High School and has been a Marine 13 years.

Maj. Vernon L. Sylvester, just arrived in Viet Nam after serving three years as a recruiting officer in Indianapolis. His wife Luann and their two daughters have adopted Indianapolis as their home. Crouse, currently administrative chief at the DaNang press center, has been in VietNam 10 months, and he hopes to be back in Indianapolis by February.

"I was just 17 years old when I went in," Crouse said, "and it's my career. I've always wanted to be a Marine."

Crouse proved to be quite helpful to the correspondents. There were few things they asked for that he couldn't come up with...notebooks, foot powder, carbon paper, and insect repellent, to list a few.

Maj. Sylvester, 40 years old, has 18 years of his life invested in the Corps. He entered the ranks as an enlisted man. After his first hitch was up, he went to college and then rejoined the Corps. In 1950 he was commissioned as an officer and saw action in Korea.

His present job is commander of H and S companies, the support element for Gen. Lewis Walt, Commander of the Third Marine Amphibious Forces.

Sylvester has more than 1,000 officers and men working with him.

Originally, the major called his home town West Chester, Pa., but he may make Indianapolis his permanent home. "I wasn't crazy about getting recruiting duty," he said, "but as long as I had to do it, I couldn't have found a better place than Indianapolis.

"I believe we made more friends there than any place we've been. We had so many friends that my wife and children wanted to stay there. I wish I could tell the people back in Indiana hello," the major said. "I really miss them."

"Hoosier hospitality is certainly no misnomer," he added.

Sgt. Crouse, in his 13 years of service, has been stationed in North Africa, Casablanca, Hong Kong, and at various bases in Europe and Spain. He's been married 10 years and he'll whip out pictures of his four sons and daughter at a moment's notice..

"I wish you'd tell my wife something for me," Crouse said. "Tell her Da Nang is off limits. I can't get off the base, and there's nothing to do here."

"And also tell her I'm staying out of trouble," he added with an impish grin.

Crouse is unlucky playing the little games Marines tinker with to see which of them will pay for the next round of drinks.

In five tries, Crouse lost three times. When he laid his money down the third time he said, "Boy am I glad my wife works. You guys are killing me."

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Made Up His Mind At Age 5-Sergeant Proud Of Training He Gave Marines For Viet Duty

November 22, 1966

Da Nang, South Viet Nam--Just one look at Richard Schaad is all anyone needs to tell he is a Marine.

He's only five feet, 9 inches tall, but he weighs 195 pounds and he's solid muscle.

Even in combat fatigues, shouldering a pack and all his gear, he is neat and trim and carries himself with the posture of a man who knows his job and takes great pride in performing his tasks.

Schaad, 28 years old, decided he wanted to be a Marine when he was only 5 years old and saw a member of the Corps walking down the street in his home town of Syracuse, N.Y.

"I made up my mind then I wanted to be a Marine,"Schaad said, "and I made it. I'm a member of one of the greatest fighting forces the world has ever seen. And I'm not only a part of it...I helped make it that way."

Schaad, handsome and brown-eyed, did not mean to boast. No matter what is said about Marines, Schaad is not one to boast. He is the kind of person you have to know before he will talk freely. When he said he helped make the Marine Corps a fighting unit, he didn't refer to his prowess. He considered the fact that as a drill instructor, for officers and recruits alike, he has devoted nearly five of his nine-year career to training 1,400 officers and men.

Today, Staff Sgt. Schaad is assigned to one of the most difficult task imaginable, that of protecting civilian war correspondents who venture into combat zones.

He doesn't necessarily like the duty, but he takes it as part of his role as a Marine. Civilian correspondents often ignore the shouts to "Get Down" even if they come from a former drill instructor, which, any Marine will tell you, is feared above God.

What Schaad really wants to do is join a rifle company or a weapons platoon and use the knowledge he has gained in his career to keep other Marines alive.

Schaad believed he was going to join a combat group when he left the states in April, but his assignment was changed at the last moment because he was needed to protect and instruct correspondents on the weapons used by the Corps and teach them the fundamentals of staying alive.

He left the states after a 32-month hitch at Parris Island, where he trained more than 900 Marines. Prior to that duty he trained more than 500 officers in two years at Quantico, Va., in the Marine Corps Officer's Candidate School.

Earlier, he spent nine months as an instructor in Nuclear-Biological and Chemical Warfare at Quantico.

Schaad speaks modestly of his role as a drill instructor.

"I know 90 per cent of the men I trained hated me. But today a lot of them know why they received the training I gave them. It's keeping them alive."

"I've met officers and men over here that I trained," Schaad said. "A few of them ask me if I'm still as mean as I was at Parris Island or Quantico. But more of them thank me for the training they received. After fighting over here, they know why they got it," he said.

"In the states, it is hard for a recruit to realize the need for the training he's getting. We're in the states and we're safe. They don't realize that the Corps may get into a fight anywhere in the world at any time."

"If the boots could only see what kind of training their drill instructors get, they'd think they had it easy," Schaad said.

The sergeant explained that would-be drill instructors must complete a five week training course in which they must learn to do, better and faster, every task they expects recruits to perform.

"We start out running four miles a day, and it builds up from there. Only about 50 per cent of the men who go to DI School make it to graduation," Schaad said.

Schaad said he demanded his trainees be clean, neat, honest, and obedient.

"I trained them in 12 weeks to drill, the manual of arms, how to care for the .45 caliber pistol and the M-14 rifle, their clothing, the code of conduct, personal hygiene, and care of the barracks. I wasn't easy on any of them," he admitted. "But, I think the training kept a lot of those kids alive over here. I'm proud of that."

When asked what his most frustrating moment as a drill instructor was he said, "Boy that's easy. I had just showed a platoon how to make up their bunks and shine their shoes. They finished making their bunks and began shining their shoes when I noticed a boy who was having all kinds of trouble. I walked up to him and saw why right away."

"I said son, did you go to school? The boy said yes. I asked how far? He said, the 12th grade sir. I graduated."

"Can you read, I asked him. He told me he could. I asked him if he'd read his polish can and he said no."

"Well, are your boots made out of metal, I asked. He smirked and said, why no."

"Well then, why are you trying to polish them with brass polish?" Schaad asked.

"The kid gave me a sick smile and said, 'Golly, I don't know, sir, but I'll sure get these things to shining.'"

"I had to get out of there before I exploded," Schaad said with a laugh.

Schaad misses his wife Adelaide, and his two sons and daughter, "but," he said, "if I don't do my job here, they wouldn't be safe where they are."

South Vietnam, The American Waterloo: Buffy Works Hard To Keep Copters Flying...But His Heart Is Soft

November 21, 1966

An Khe, South Viet Nam—The First Cavalry Division, which makes its base camp here, has already become a legend in this hard-fought war against Communist aggression. But there's another legend within the division by the name of Major Dale W. Buffington.

The major will answer to the name of "Buffy" to almost everyone, non-com and superior officers alike. It's hard to tell that Buffy is a major, because generally, he has his shirt off and is constantly tinkering around the helicopters, which put the punch in the First Cavalry Division's offensives.

Buffy is 44 years old, and he calls his home Kensington, Pa., but he hasn't been home very often in his 26-year Army career. He joined the army in October, 1940, and became an officer in 1950.

During World War II, Buffy served as a machine gunner with the Third Armored Division as it swept across France, Belgium, and Germany. Buffy won the Silver Star in the battle for St. Lo, and the Purple Heart for shrapnel wounds he suffered at Mortaine. His back, both shoulders, and lungs were injured so badly it took him 6 1/2 years to recover.

Buffy has logged more than 6,000 hours in helicopters and fixed wing aircraft, and he quickly realized the helicopter's potential as a troop and weapons carrier that could put a deadly sting into any offensive move.

He still flies, if he can find the time, after completing his full-time job of finding new parts or pieces to keep the nearly 900 helicopters of the First Cavalry Division in the air.

Buffy, the son of a Baptist minister and an evangelist mother, grew up tinkering with machinery, and he's a machinist by trade. He says he can scrounge or make any piece he needs to keep a helicopter flying.

He has spent more than 10 years in the Orient and Southeast Asia. He knows his way around in military and civilian circles, and most importantly, he has come close to understanding the inner working of the Oriental mind.

His philosophies and thoughts on the Vietnamese are interesting. Of America's effort in this country he said, "This country is still a frontier, a fertile frontier which has never been completely explored. These people have asked for help, and my government has consented to give them help. It isn't for me to argue the cause. I respect my government, and I'll do what is right."

Of the people who oppose the American involvement in Viet Nam, Buffy said, "The people who say we are wrong do not understand, or are unable to tolerate the Oriental mind. It takes a lot of time to understand these people. Kipling once said, 'East is East and West is West and never the twain shall meet,' and he was right. The Oriental thinks differently than the Westerner, but that doesn't make him wrong."

"The people who oppose our fight for the Vietnamese," Buffy said, "oppose their own government. And, they are in dire need of a tranquilizer administered on the end of a club."

Of the intelligence of the rank and file of the Vietnamese people, which is often summarized as low, and the consensus that they do not appreciate our efforts here, Buffington said, "It doesn't take much intelligence for a man to know he has lost his freedom. He doesn't need an education to know he is the prisoner and the slave of a regime. All we want for these people is what they want themselves...the right to make a free choice. They have asked us to help them. I believe we should help as much as we can, because a fight here could stop another fight in Pennsylvania, or one where you live.

"I've studied American history," he said, "and I know how the West was won. I'm sure that if the Americans could win such a monumental battle, that they can overcome the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese here."

"Most of the guys we capture wind up being our allies," Buffy said. "They have been fed the bull that we are out to dominate the country and dominate them. Once they learn our true aims they become our ally."

As Buffy spoke, he precariously gave himself a manicure with a knife. What made the manicure so precarious was that Buffy never failed to look me straight in the eye as he spoke and manipulated the knife. His blue-green eyes sparkled as he talked of his years in Japan and Korea and finally, South Viet Nam.

Buffy is a soft-hearted soldier for all his years in the Army. Like most soldiers, he feels sorry for the children involved in this war...especially the orphans. He has done his part for them too.

He was made the honorary father of an orphanage at Vung Tau. Buffy modestly claims that all he did for the orphanage was, "find a few things and a few of the right people for them."

But because of Buffy, nearly 500 Vietnamese orphans in the Vung Tau area have food, clothes, and foster homes.

"I'm happy to know that those kids have been put into homes with families that will raise them like they were their own," Buffy said.

Despite his knowledge, respect, understanding, and demonstrated compassion for the people of the Orient, Buffington's true love is the First Cavalry Division and the helicopters they fly on their assault missions.

Buffy has the reputation as being the man in the division who can get anything they need, anytime they need it. Of his reputation he said calmly, "let's say that my career has provided me with invaluable contacts. If I need something, I don't have to let too many people know I'm hurting before I've got what I need."

The major said he is awaiting his replacement to arrive in Viet Nam so he can retire. When asked directly if he was going to retire, he smiled and said, "Oh, I don't think so. I couldn't stand punching a clock for a living. Besides, who is going to teach all the young guys how to get along and keep the First Cavalry's helicopters flying?"