I love Saigon. I used to pay a lambretta driver (small taxi) for a couple of hours of just riding through the old French Colonial City. Away from river and the central area of the city, one would think of Old Havana or Paris. The city teems with people, and all of them have a Honda. The streets are clogged with them, and boys sitting on the sidewalk with a barrel of gasoline, selling it by the coke bottle to feed these swarms of little bees. You always had to keep your eyes open and carry a weapon, but for the most part it was quite safe. I have walked hand in hand with a dear friend down the French boulevardes in the middle of the night, with the smell of flowers permenting the air. I have never seen a more beautiful city. I keep a villa there, in Din Tin Huong, about a half mile from the river. Back in the day, a three bedroom French villa rented for about $75.00 a month.
Randy and I hid there, we kept a good stash of weapons just in case, and heavily armed body guards that sat in the garden throughout the night. It wasn't that expensive, and in our case, living on the economy away from any military base, it was prudent. After the jungle in Ca Mau, it was a welcome relief. It was in the garden that I made first contact with Jean Picote'.
Jean was a little man with a heavy French accent. I would learn that he was lean and mean, a member of the French Foreign Legion, a paratrooper, special services. Jean was a recruiter under the authority of JUSMAAGMACV (Joint United States Military Assistance, Advisory Group/Military Assistance Command, Viet Nam), a SPOOK. He looked like a pencil necked geek. I would soon learn how wrong I was. Jean would show his worth many times over the years.
We had drinks under a bright umbrella during the heat of the afternoon sun. Randy was there, Command and Control had set up the meeting. Jean was speaking beneath his large handlebar mustache. "There are villages that we cannot approach with as many as a squad of troopers. The village chiefs want to talk to our soldiers, but are afraid of reprisals. We go in during the day, and they are tortured that night. We need a "turkey shoot"."
I knew what that meant, two people, no support, picking off North Vietnamese Cadre. One might call it "security", it's not what I called it. It was a dirty, mucky, rainy, mosquito infested mission. This was Randy's call, I listened attentively, or made believe I did. Actually I was thinking about the breaded fried shrimp that Oanh was preparing for the evening meal. My boredom must have shown, Jean gave me a mean look and asked Randy if I was bored. I just try not to listen to all the bullshit. Point me in the right direction, tell me who to shoot at. But don't throw flowers at me and give me a parade. At the end of our meeting, Jean passed us two medal badges, wild geese encirling an arm with a sword. We were told it would give us free passage and shelter through the villages that were considered "iffy", on the fence. Bullshit, it was a target. It wasn't the first time Randy and I had been used.
For the next three or four days we languished in the villa with cold beer and good food. Randy was above my paygrade and spent his days with the Legion going over maps and trails. He would determine when we were ready.
Ready was the next day. Three military police jeeps sat outside the villa. The 385th MP Group provided security and movement control. M-60's were "rat patrol" mounted with a gunner on each jeep. We were headed for Ton Son Nhut, the major aviation airport in Saigon. It was a quiet ride, no one spoke. My hangover took in the haze a Charlie model helicopter on the pad, squatting like a big bug loaded down with ammunition and weapons. For me, an M-14 with a starlite scope, and 120 rounds of non tracer 7.62. For Randy his M-16 with a 400 rd basic load. Rations, grenades, flares, and all the other junk was in a water proof bag sitting on the cabin floor. The pilot said nothing, he just wound up the bird and lifted the collective, bringing us into a hover. The slap of the big blades made my head roar. I thought I recognised the right seat. It was Jean. He flicked his intercom switch and I listened through the headset. "One village, three cadre of North Vietnamese Regulars, mean sons of bitches. You are to make contact and eliminate with extreme predjudice." I watched Saigon pass into the morning, the jungle now beneath us. I poked Randy, off the intercom so no one could hear, "How many days?", Three or four he answered. "Where?" I got a "fuck I don't know". We were headed south, deep into the Delta, Dong Tam was off to our east position about 5 miles, it was easily recognised by it's red mud PSP runway. Two AH-1G Cobra's lifted into the sky, killer teams. They would escort us into the small LZ that had been blown by the engineers. A bull dozer had removed tree trunks and all other obstacles allowing for our two birds to settle gently. Jean gave us a thumbs up and we exited the bird and walked the path toward a few grass huts squatting in the jungle. Three or four shots were fired in the distance, it indicated strangers on the AO. We were the strangers. Within a minute or so the enemy knew our position. Hell, they probably had or names. We were confronted by village guards (we caalled them Ruff Puffs). Kind of like Vietnams National Guard, a rifle across the handlebar of a honda, dressed in all black. We dropped rucks and were "escorted" to the village chiefs grass hut. I had an m-1911 (the Army standard .45 caliber), cocked and locked, there is no way I was going into a village unarmed.
Our hands in a temple configuation beneath our chins, we greeted the chief in Buddhist fashion. After tea and some terrible tobacco through a small rubber hose attached to a wooden bowl, Randy began.
"We know they come here." The little old man said nothing but his eyes showed fear. "I am offering you safety for your village and families" Randy continued, "We'll set up an LZ, it will look as if it is an offensive in the area, of which you have no control. There will be partols." The little old man nodded and offered us rice wine. "They will scruitinize us." The llittle man said.
At this point, I am feeling a little creepy. The chickens have stopped clucking, the children have gone to thier huts. I poked Randy in the ribs. "It's weird out there man." Randy perked and looked deep into the old mans eyes. "You're fucked old man." The asshole actually set us up. I had a PRC-25 on my back freaked to the bird. "Run it up," I commanded. Randy and I backed from the hut and hurried to the bird in the LZ, it's engine beginning to wine furiously. As we began to lift off, small arms fire came from the treeline prompting the Cobra's to spray some 20mm cannon. Our UH-1C carried two rocket pods with 17 lb HE, an M-60 manned on each side by a door gunner, and a Honeywell 40mm hand cracnked cannon. We could have levelled the whole village with that one bird, but Randy signalled to hold back and head back to base camp. He wanted to talk.
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