|
|
The Road to Plei Beng
I went to Viet Nam as a 26
year-old physician and partially trained psychiatrist to study
combat stress for the US Army. To do so I had to look for troops in
the most stressful situations and found them among Medevac
helicopter crews rescuing wounded soldiers under withering enemy
fire and Green Beret units attacking enemy supply routes in the
jungle along the Cambodian border. The cooperation I needed demanded
that I share their lives, the risks they took and the all too real
possibility of death. But I was young, eager for adventure and
convinced of my own immortality. As soon as I arrived I began
keeping a journal and religiously, each evening, over the next
twelve months I recorded the day's events, and my reactions to them.
At the end of a year I had twelve slim volumes describe a year at
war.
More than forty years later those books provide a picture of a young
man struggling to deal with the political and moral ambiguities of
the war zone, his efforts to find his own maturity in an arena of
sexual extravagance and casual killing, and his relentless pursuit
of a professional career even if it cost him his life. I had
volunteered to go to Viet Nam. I had no strong feelings about the
war, but I wanted to be where the action was and to be able to come
back with my own first-hand opinion about America's involvement. I
craved the excitement and believed that in every generation the real
men went to war. Over a year the harsh realities sank in; not just
the horror of killing or being killed, but the ignorance and
incompetence of those in positions of authority, the arrogance and
racism that was used to justify the American presence, the
willingness of an older generation to sacrifice the lives of the
young if it would advance their own careers, and the yawning gap
between what I saw on the battlefield and what people back home were
being told. War, I also learned, was about much more than just doing
battle. It was about men happily escaping tawdry burned-out
marriages, love found in strange places, slick NCOs making fortunes
by illegal gold and currency transactions or stealing and selling
government property, cynical debasement of the civilian population,
and the unsheathing of primitive desires that only in a war zone
could be bared and satisfied without consequence. At the end I was
more cynical, callous, and disillusioned, but strikingly better
informed, more worldly, and confident in who I was and in what I
believed. The experience had penetrated to my soul and I would never
be the same again. On balance, psychologically, the entire
experience probably made me a better person.
The "lessons of Viet Nam" have been cited by both supporters and
opponents of the war to justify opposing political points of view.
But four decades on, surrounded largely by a generation that has
never experienced combat, the career-disrupting anxiety of the
draft, or the patriotic proposition that one might care to lay down
one's life for one's country, I believe the most important lessons
have less to do with any one war than with the nature of war itself.
Any war makes the quintessential demand for social and group
responsibility and sacrifice. The suffering, devastation, and at
times the lunacy of war have been so thoroughly documented as to be
clichés of modern parlance. Viet Nam left a particular legacy of
psychological devastation. But for those who survive this often
primeval experience that forces men, and increasingly women, at a
young age to confront the harshest and deepest questions about human
existence it can breed an understanding about humankind, a clarity
of values, and a premature wisdom that is thoroughly lacking in a
generation for whom war is only a distant abstract concept. A
society without these people may be a more vulnerable society in
many respects. Perhaps this subconsciously is one of the reasons why
we used to place such a high premium on having a president with a
military record.
One mission through the jungles of Viet Nam became in my mind a
distillation of my entire Viet Nam experience. It was thirty-six
hours that changed my life. A combat patrol to attack and capture an
enemy village, it probably differed little from many others, but for
me every minute of the experience has remained with me for the rest
of my life.
I was one of thirteen Americans in a highly fortified Special Forces
camp in the Central Highlands near the Cambodian border. With us was
a detachment of Vietnamese soldiers, but the bulk of our troops were
primitive Montagnard tribesmen, barely out of the stone age. They
fought not out of any ideological commitment but for the simple
ration of rice and salt they and their families received. Despite
what seemed on the surface an insurmountable gap between our
cultures I had, to my astonishment, developed a deep affectionate
relationship with a young illiterate Montagnard woman from a nearby
village which completely transcended our language difficulties and
the chasm between our different backgrounds. I had learned a
stunning lesson about how powerful the natural affinity between two
human souls could be with or without a veneer of civilization.
At night the surrounding jungle was owned by the Viet Cong and many
nights mortar shells rained down on the camp forcing us to live like
rats in sand-bagged bunkers and tunnels. The job of our unit was to
attack and disrupt enemy units infiltrating men and supplies down
the Ho Chi Minh trail. The life expectancy of the U.S. captains
commanding these Special Forces ‘A’ teams was three months. The
first commander I worked with, Richard Conway, was caught and killed
the wrong side of the Cambodian border. His head was then paraded
through the local villages on a pole to prove the Americans were no
supermen and as a warning to those who might consider becoming our
allies.
The Montagnard village of Plei Beng lay northwest of our camp, Duc
Co, only a few minutes away by helicopter but nearly twenty-four
hours march through the jungle. Supposedly a Viet Cong stronghold it
was a crossroads on the infiltration routes and as such exerted
control over a significant area of countryside. Its military
significance had become steadily inflated with the belief that its
capture would represent a turning point in the war in the highlands.
In the Special Forces sub-culture lieutenants and captains in their
twenties sought desperately to justify their superior rank to crusty
old battle scarred sergeants, sometimes old enough to be their
fathers, by acts of often reckless courage. In this vein, Wells
Cunningham, the new camp commander and my close friend, decided that
he would lead a small detachment to take and destroy the village,
seize major arms caches that were thought to be hidden there,
capture presumed Viet Cong sympathizers for interrogation, and
forcibly relocate the rest of the inhabitants.
A helicopter assault with a large number of men would inevitably
alert our quarry. To achieve an element of surprise we went,
instead, on foot planning our attack for dawn the following day. A
third American, Sergeant Richard Gann, accompanied Cunningham and
myself. Gann was as close to a real life Rambo as you could get and
a reassuring figure to be with. He had arrived by helicopter in the
camp a month earlier grasping a bottle of champagne. It was, he
said, to celebrate his divorce coming final two weeks hence. On the
anointed day I found him at 8:00am having already drunk the entire
bottle himself. We were accompanied by a Vietnamese captain, Tran
Din Lop, nominally the commander of the venture together with
twenty-five poorly trained, resentful and frightened draftees from
the Army of the Republic of Viet Nam. Seventy five Montagnard
mercenaries made up the remainder of the force. From a culture of
hunters and gatherers they were entirely at home in the dense
forests and tall elephant grass. They were our crucial guides in the
stealthy trek to Plei Beng.
We left the camp at 10:00 in the morning and arrived at Plei Beng
around 4:00 am, the following day. En route, we were worn down by
the oppressive heat and humidity, insects and leeches, booby traps,
land mines, and a brief skirmish with a Viet Cong unit. Even more
disconcerting to me was the verbal conflict between the Americans
and the Vietnamese over every decision that had to be made. A
complex dynamic developed between strong personalities that would be
played out with near disastrous consequences. In addition the
Vietnamese viewed the Montagnards as little better than animals and
tolerated their involvement only as an indulgence to the Americans.
|
|
As the first red rays of dawn were appearing we surrounded
Plei Beng. Undetected we, the predatory hunters, lay hidden
in the tree line around the village. There was an eerie
silence broken only by the thumping sound of women grinding
corn and the irregular crowing of a rooster. The air was
filled with the sweet smell of freshly lit charcoal fires.
Those who were up, mostly women, were oblivious to the
hundred or so pairs of eyes filled with malevolent intent
focused on them less than two hundred yards away. For me it
was a moment beyond excitement or fear that seemed to
resonate with some primitive genes from a neanderthal past.
No other moment in my life ever quite matched it. Suddenly
the air was filled with flying bullets, screams, and wild
shouting.
Eventually after the firing had subsided we moved into the
village. More than a dozen bodies lay on the ground. Among
the Montagnard villagers there were curiously no wounded
except for a two-year-bid boy with a flesh wound. Only later
did I realize that the Vietnamese moving into the village
ahead of me had dispatched all the wounded with a shot to
the head. On our side there were two men with minor
injuries, but it was unclear whether they had been hit by
enemy fire or by their own comrades in the confusion of
battle. With the village secure Wells Cunningham made radio
contact with the Special Forces regional headquarters in
Pleiku, sixty miles away. The body count was the primary
topic of interest. A thorough search had not revealed the
much-anticipated cache of weapons.
As our troops continued the search and helped themselves to
anything they fancied in the homes of the villagers. The
survivors, mostly women and children, were assembled and
told, through an interpreter, that they were to be forcibly
relocated and their hamlet burned to the ground. They were
given an hour to gather whatever possessions they wished to
take with them. As I wondered among the simple wooden
dwellings, mostly raised on slender stilts, a tropical
deluge began. An older woman beckoned me into her little
thatched hut out of the soaking rain. She made me sit and
served me a warm tea-like drink in a wooden cup. A pretty
young woman in her early twenties, either terrified or
consumed by shyness, kept smiling at me from the corner of
the shack. As I sipped the warm beverage I pondered what
strange courtesy made a women offer this hospitality as she
knew preparations were being made to burn down her home. I
was sure it was because I was an American and not a
Vietnamese.
Later as the dwellings were being set alight I remembered I
had left my back pack inside the door of a house. Returning
there I found Captain Lop standing with some of his men and
several prisoners with their hands bound behind their backs.
As I entered the house which was already alight I found a
struggling, moaning man lying on the floor. Braving the
gathering flames I rushed in and found he had his feet and
hands tied and had been stabbed in several places. I yelled
out at Lop,
"Are you planning to burn this man alive?" "He's dead," was
his resentful reply.
I pulled out my .45 thinking that if he was near death I
could at least spare him the horror of consciousness as the
flames engulfed him. But he was very much alive, and as soon
as I cut the ropes around his ankles he was able to stand up
and follow me out of what would have been his fiery grave.
Lop glared at me, spat on the ground, and walked away.
A short while later I related the incident to Wells
Cunningham. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"He won't appreciate that you know," Cunningham warned.
"I could not let him burn," I replied.
"You could have." And after a long pause, "But you did the
right thing."
"There were twenty-three people killed here today," he
continued. "I have reported them all as Viet Cong or Viet
Cong sympathizers. Our losses were two wounded. That's
pretty good in military terms. I don't lie like some people
and jack up the body count, but Lop and I are judged on
whether we produce, not on our ethics. No one up the line is
going to complain about a few extra dead people. If this is
wrong the whole war is wrong, and perhaps its is, but that's
up to the politicians not me."
We walked on for a minute or two in silence through the
smoldering ruins of the village. Finally he turned to me and
said, "Write up a report on the incident and I will file it
with Col. Burns. (our commanding officer at headquarters in
Pleiku). “Lop's a prick anyway and it will show him who is
boss." He bent down and picked up a discarded crossbow used
by the Montagnards to hunt birds and other small game in the
forest.
"People like you should not get into combat," he observed.
"Idealism is fine but you have to be realistic and
pragmatic. Its true for society as a whole. If an individual
wants to make change he has to know what will work and what
won't, and when to compromise and not be bullheaded. This is
a terrible war. I often think we are fighting on the wrong
side, but I have made the army my career and I have to make
the most of it."
A month later Wells Cunningham, from St. Joseph, Missouri
would die in a hail of machine gun fire as he ran from a
helicopter leading reinforcement to relieve an ambushed
patrol in the same area of anonymous jungle in the Central
Highlands.
The villagers distraught at the destruction of their homes
and the plan to take them they knew not where, were even
more upset that they were being forced to abandon the graves
of their ancestors. With their meager possessions they were
assembled at gun point to begin walking out. An older man
had repeatedly tried to get my attention. Finally I followed
him to a point four hundred yards outside the village. There
on a little hill was a group of four huts. Even as we
approached I could see that the people, with eroded faces
and missing digits were suffering from leprosy. From his
gestures and my limited understanding of their language I
realized that, although required to live some distance from
the village, they were completely dependent on the rest of
the community. If they were left behind they would starve. I
ended up making these people my personal responsibility
recruiting some of our captives to carry them and their
possessions.
During the remainder of the day the entire population of the
village was marched to an assembly point where Chinook
helicopters could land to ferry them back to our base camp.
There they were loaded onto trucks and taken to an abandoned
village where they would be under our control. I would spend
many hours with these people in the subsequent months
consumed by my own personal guilt.
In particular, I see Viet Nam as a war based on naive
idealism that in some respects reflected the best and the
worst in America. We were not fighting a war to vanquish an
enemy, seize territory, or build an empire. Although
geo-politicians viewed it within the context of the overall
ideological struggle of the cold war it was, especially in
the eyes of President Johnson, a holding action by our
military while we built the American dream for the South
Vietnamese whether they wanted it or not. Blinded by our
good intentions we could not see that so much of what we
were doing undermined and defeated the very goals we were
trying to achieve. Fed by the forceful view of Robert
McNamara that there was a technological or scientific
solution for every problem Viet Nam was flooded with
development experts, health providers, sociologists,
anthropologists, and political scientists. Although the most
strident opposition came from liberal academics, Viet Nam
was the only war in which social scientists were seen as an
important weapon in achieving victory. At the same time our
profound belief in the exceptionalism of the American
experience made us certain that we must be bringing people
something they truly needed and that we must ultimately
triumph.
|