rotorwash
09-07-04, 15:13
The following is excerpted from Kregg P. Jorgenson's fascinating book, "Very Crazy, G.I."
"You a vet?"
"'Nam," he replied. I nodded.
He was overweight and balding and wore what hair remained in a ponytail beneath a battered green beret.
"Special Forces, huh?" I said. This time he nodded.
"You with the Group or SOG?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Green berets," he said. I sighed.
He was dressed in jeans, frayed jungle boots, a T-shirt that read HONK IF YOU'RE HORNY, and a jungle fatigue shirt with a variety of patches sewn on the sleeves. There were two colorful rows of combat ribbons that said he had seen combat but that he didn't know which order it came in. That was his first mistake. The red-white-and blue-striped Silver Star award was placed after an Air Medal, below a Purple Heart, and next to a Good Conduct Medal. His Silver Star also had a V device indicating it was for valor, which was another mistake, because the Silver Star is awarded for gallantry, which in the military scope of things ranks a step above valor. It is not awarded a V device.
A blue and white Combat Infantryman's Badge was pinned just above the ribbons with a flat silver oblong badge. The flat badge had a triangle in its center, and I didn't recognize it at first. Then I smiled seconds later, recognizing that I had seen it on the uniform of the officers who manned the bridge on the television series, Star Trek, either generation.
The combat patch on his right sleeve was an olive drab, subdued MAC-V insignia, while a Special Forces arrowhead patch was sewn on his left sleeve. On one shirt jacket pocket was a death's-head skull; an ace of spades was sewn on the opposite pocket. A number of Vietnam War-related pins were spread across the pocket flaps and lapels like shrapnel from an exploding surplus store, but it was his green beret that caught most of my attention.
The weathered beret had a Special Forces insignia, a French paracommando crest, and the flat black rank pin of a Marine lance corporal. The crests, patches, other insignia, and beret were an unusual mix of services, units and time warps.
"I got a good story for you," he said while I nodded. I don't know if it has been declassified yet," he said, and then shrugged, adding in conspiritorial tones, "Who knows? It probably never will be."
"So, who did you serve with?" I asked, beginning the process by working through the basics.
"Special Forces," he said, "Black Ops." I nodded again taking out my notebook and jotting that down.
"Not SOG, huh?" He offered a confused look in return. Since Hollywood hadn't discovered SOG yet, the public knew little about it.
I scanned the rest of the man's makeshift uniform again. It took a few seconds to realize he wasn't wearing jump wings; the standard U.S. Army parachutist badge. This was like a nun without her habit, a sheriff without a badge, or, say, Vegas without an Elvis impersonator.
"So where did you serve?" I asked, giving my best 60 Minutes Mike Wallace stare. It was a shame I didn't have a loud stopwatch.
"Where?" he echoed.
I nodded. "Yeah. Which corps area? When were you in country?"
"All over," he said, cryptically evading the question. "I did a few tours." Then he came back at me with more immediate concerns. "So how much can you pay for the story?" he asked.
I smiled. "Complimentary copies, a few free magazines if it's published."
"That isn't very much," he said.
"No kidding," I said. Sometimes I wonder if I should have taken up plumbing.
Mulling it over, the Special Forces Star Trek veteran reluctantly decided it still might be worth his time. "I just want people to know the real story. That's all," he said. "I want to get it off my chest."
"Get what off your chest?" I asked. He was quiet for a long moment.
"I killed Ho Chi Ming," he said finally.
"Who?" I asked, not quite believing what I thought I had heard.
"The Vietnamese leader?"
"You mean Ho Chi Minh?" I asked.
He just nodded. "Yeah, thats what I said."
"And you killed him?"
The storyteller nodded. "Yeah, on a secret mission. Black Ops. We were a special hit team doing a job for the CIA. There were only three of us. The other two are dead now. I'm the only one left."
I studied his face as he told his tale, thinking he had to be ten years younger than I, which meant that at the time of Ho Chi Minh's death in 1969, the storyteller would have been all of fourteen.
"I thought Ho Chi Minh died of a heart atack." I said, knowing it was a reasonable enough statement since it was in most history books and encyclopedias. I've always done well with the obvious.
"That's what they wanted everyone to believe!"
Some days aren't as interesting as others, but this one ws beginning to show promise. "So, how did you do it?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"How did you and your two teammates do it?"
The storyteller looked around to see if anyone ws listening, and when he was certain there was more interest than just me, he increased his volume. He went into a ridiculous story about it being a suicide mission tht the CIA wrote off. How they were parachuted over the jungle base where Ho was guarded by a couple hundred special Russian soldiers, and how the three snuck up on the North Vietnamese leader like they had been trained.
"Just you and two other Americans?"
"UH-huh. And while they kept the guards busy, I snuck in and blew him away, man."
"Ho Chi Ming?" I asked again, just to be certain I had heard him correctly. "And you reported back where?"
"What?"
"Not what. Where? As in, what base? Nha Trang? Da Nang? Star Fleet Command? Where?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I'd like to look at a copy of your DD214 if you have one on you," I replied.
"It's been sanitized," he said.
"Sanitized?"
"Erased to cover it up. There's no record of the mission anywhere, man," he said, more than a little annoyed by my line of questioning. "I told you, it was Black Ops. Top Secret! It isn't in my military records."
"Okay, then how about telling me which Special Forces group you were with? And when you served with it? And maybe a few names, like your commanding officer, sergeant major, or team sergeant or anyone else who I can check with to verify any of your story." Special Ops types are a close community, and like Mr. Disney said, it's a small world after all.
"F**k it! I don't need this s**t!" the visitor said, irritated by my asking for some sources.
"Neither do the rest of us Nam vets, sport, the real Vietnam veterans. So right now, I'd settle for your driver's license to check your birth date to make sure that the Special Forces or the CIA didn't recruit you out of junior high school for your remarkably daring deed."
"You saying I'm lying?"
I grinned, "Yeah, and badly, too." I added. "So how do you spell your name anyway, because I want to make sure I get this story right. It's a good one."
"F**k you!" he said, walking away.
"Is that with one F or two?" I said calling after him, only he kept on walking. God I hate those French names.
RW
"You a vet?"
"'Nam," he replied. I nodded.
He was overweight and balding and wore what hair remained in a ponytail beneath a battered green beret.
"Special Forces, huh?" I said. This time he nodded.
"You with the Group or SOG?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Green berets," he said. I sighed.
He was dressed in jeans, frayed jungle boots, a T-shirt that read HONK IF YOU'RE HORNY, and a jungle fatigue shirt with a variety of patches sewn on the sleeves. There were two colorful rows of combat ribbons that said he had seen combat but that he didn't know which order it came in. That was his first mistake. The red-white-and blue-striped Silver Star award was placed after an Air Medal, below a Purple Heart, and next to a Good Conduct Medal. His Silver Star also had a V device indicating it was for valor, which was another mistake, because the Silver Star is awarded for gallantry, which in the military scope of things ranks a step above valor. It is not awarded a V device.
A blue and white Combat Infantryman's Badge was pinned just above the ribbons with a flat silver oblong badge. The flat badge had a triangle in its center, and I didn't recognize it at first. Then I smiled seconds later, recognizing that I had seen it on the uniform of the officers who manned the bridge on the television series, Star Trek, either generation.
The combat patch on his right sleeve was an olive drab, subdued MAC-V insignia, while a Special Forces arrowhead patch was sewn on his left sleeve. On one shirt jacket pocket was a death's-head skull; an ace of spades was sewn on the opposite pocket. A number of Vietnam War-related pins were spread across the pocket flaps and lapels like shrapnel from an exploding surplus store, but it was his green beret that caught most of my attention.
The weathered beret had a Special Forces insignia, a French paracommando crest, and the flat black rank pin of a Marine lance corporal. The crests, patches, other insignia, and beret were an unusual mix of services, units and time warps.
"I got a good story for you," he said while I nodded. I don't know if it has been declassified yet," he said, and then shrugged, adding in conspiritorial tones, "Who knows? It probably never will be."
"So, who did you serve with?" I asked, beginning the process by working through the basics.
"Special Forces," he said, "Black Ops." I nodded again taking out my notebook and jotting that down.
"Not SOG, huh?" He offered a confused look in return. Since Hollywood hadn't discovered SOG yet, the public knew little about it.
I scanned the rest of the man's makeshift uniform again. It took a few seconds to realize he wasn't wearing jump wings; the standard U.S. Army parachutist badge. This was like a nun without her habit, a sheriff without a badge, or, say, Vegas without an Elvis impersonator.
"So where did you serve?" I asked, giving my best 60 Minutes Mike Wallace stare. It was a shame I didn't have a loud stopwatch.
"Where?" he echoed.
I nodded. "Yeah. Which corps area? When were you in country?"
"All over," he said, cryptically evading the question. "I did a few tours." Then he came back at me with more immediate concerns. "So how much can you pay for the story?" he asked.
I smiled. "Complimentary copies, a few free magazines if it's published."
"That isn't very much," he said.
"No kidding," I said. Sometimes I wonder if I should have taken up plumbing.
Mulling it over, the Special Forces Star Trek veteran reluctantly decided it still might be worth his time. "I just want people to know the real story. That's all," he said. "I want to get it off my chest."
"Get what off your chest?" I asked. He was quiet for a long moment.
"I killed Ho Chi Ming," he said finally.
"Who?" I asked, not quite believing what I thought I had heard.
"The Vietnamese leader?"
"You mean Ho Chi Minh?" I asked.
He just nodded. "Yeah, thats what I said."
"And you killed him?"
The storyteller nodded. "Yeah, on a secret mission. Black Ops. We were a special hit team doing a job for the CIA. There were only three of us. The other two are dead now. I'm the only one left."
I studied his face as he told his tale, thinking he had to be ten years younger than I, which meant that at the time of Ho Chi Minh's death in 1969, the storyteller would have been all of fourteen.
"I thought Ho Chi Minh died of a heart atack." I said, knowing it was a reasonable enough statement since it was in most history books and encyclopedias. I've always done well with the obvious.
"That's what they wanted everyone to believe!"
Some days aren't as interesting as others, but this one ws beginning to show promise. "So, how did you do it?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"How did you and your two teammates do it?"
The storyteller looked around to see if anyone ws listening, and when he was certain there was more interest than just me, he increased his volume. He went into a ridiculous story about it being a suicide mission tht the CIA wrote off. How they were parachuted over the jungle base where Ho was guarded by a couple hundred special Russian soldiers, and how the three snuck up on the North Vietnamese leader like they had been trained.
"Just you and two other Americans?"
"UH-huh. And while they kept the guards busy, I snuck in and blew him away, man."
"Ho Chi Ming?" I asked again, just to be certain I had heard him correctly. "And you reported back where?"
"What?"
"Not what. Where? As in, what base? Nha Trang? Da Nang? Star Fleet Command? Where?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I'd like to look at a copy of your DD214 if you have one on you," I replied.
"It's been sanitized," he said.
"Sanitized?"
"Erased to cover it up. There's no record of the mission anywhere, man," he said, more than a little annoyed by my line of questioning. "I told you, it was Black Ops. Top Secret! It isn't in my military records."
"Okay, then how about telling me which Special Forces group you were with? And when you served with it? And maybe a few names, like your commanding officer, sergeant major, or team sergeant or anyone else who I can check with to verify any of your story." Special Ops types are a close community, and like Mr. Disney said, it's a small world after all.
"F**k it! I don't need this s**t!" the visitor said, irritated by my asking for some sources.
"Neither do the rest of us Nam vets, sport, the real Vietnam veterans. So right now, I'd settle for your driver's license to check your birth date to make sure that the Special Forces or the CIA didn't recruit you out of junior high school for your remarkably daring deed."
"You saying I'm lying?"
I grinned, "Yeah, and badly, too." I added. "So how do you spell your name anyway, because I want to make sure I get this story right. It's a good one."
"F**k you!" he said, walking away.
"Is that with one F or two?" I said calling after him, only he kept on walking. God I hate those French names.
RW