|
3rd
Security Police Squadron - 1968
I arrived
at Biên Hòa, Air Base on November 5, 1968. Almost seven
weeks earlier, on September the 13th, a Friday, I turned
nineteen while going through AZR at Lackland. Some two
months after being in country, I was still pretty green.
It was around this time that I had an experience I remember
vividly to this day.
As with most security policemen,
I worked nights my entire year in Vietnam. At Guardmount,
on this particular night, I was assigned to Bravo-One-Three.
One of the most boring posts on the base. This post was
not on the perimeter where you might have the opportunity
to crank off a few rounds. From here you could not see
helicopters pouring fire down on VC below. You could
not see B-52 raids off in the distance, although you
could see the explosions reflecting red off the clouds
above. No, this post was deep inside the base. It was
a tiny bunker situated between a large parking apron
to the south and a taxiway to the north that ran east
and west, parallel with the runway.
After Guardmount,
posting troops was a major but well rehearsed event,
consisting of hurry up and wait, and mount the
trucks and jeeps. After twenty minutes or so, I was posted
at Bravo One Three, which had a ravine separating the
parking apron and the taxiway. My bunker was on the parking
apron side.
The Relief truck continued
on down the apron, pausing now and then as troops were
dropped off to guard a variety of aircraft parked on
the apron---mostly C-130's. On the south side of the
parking apron was the terminal, if one can call a big
tin roof supported by concrete and steel columns, a terminal.
Approximately 50 feet to the west of me was a ramp by
which aircraft accessed the taxiway from the parking
apron. Maybe another hundred feet or so, west of the
ramp was another security police post. It was probably
Bravo-One-Two, but I don't remember exactly. Our job
was to waste any sappers who might have made it this
far into the base.
If you arrived in country at Biên Hòa or departed from
there, this was that parking apron where the civilian
freedom birds parked, and from which you boarded or deplaned.
The night was slowly crawling
by and I was exhausted. It was a little cooler than during
the day, but still hot enough to make you sweat. The
big difference is that it was much, much quieter. That
day I had gotten my usual one or two hours of sleep in
the heat, humidity and noise of jet aircraft. My thoughts
kept turning to my bunk and I longed to plunge into it.
My eye lids felt like lead. I had been on duty for five
hours and had seven more to go. I wondered if I could
make it through the night. The parking apron was dark.
The whole area was dark, very dark, not much light anywhere.
Just after midnight I
was sitting on my bunker wondering if my watch was working
properly. According to my illumines dial, only ten minutes
had gone by since the last time I had looked at it. It
seemed like it had been an hour and ten minutes. Suddenly
my radio came alive. "Bravo-One-Four, Defense Control,
be advised someone just went past me on a motorcycle."
Bravo-One-Four was an entry control point at the south
east corner of the parking apron.
I turned my head toward
Bravo-One-Four, and saw a headlight coming toward me
through the darkness. The implication was clear, the
guy on the bike had gone past our security policeman
without identifying himself. If Defense Control responded,
I have no recollection of it. I jumped up and grabbed
my M16. Was he VC? All Vietnamese rode motorcycles.
A Honda 90 was the family car.
My heart began to beat
faster at the prospect of confrontation. It was so dark,
I knew he couldn't see me. As the headlight neared me
heading toward the ramp, I shouted "HALT!" as loud as
I could. Upon doing so, I realized that the man on the
bike could not have possibly heard me. His bike was so
loud, I could hardly hear myself; how could he have heard
me? As he traversed the ramp, I pulled and released the
charging handle on my M16 jacking a round into the chamber.
Again I shouted "HALT!"
and fired a round into the air. At this point the security
policeman at Bravo-One-Four came over the radio again.
"Bravo-One-Four, Defense Control, be advised I just saw
a tracer round go up from Bravo-One-Three." My first
round was a tracer. At this point everyone who could
hear the radio transmissions knew I was challenging the
individual on the bike. The biker had not heard me. After
turning onto the taxiway, he straightened out his bike
and began to accelerate. I shouted "halt=" one last time
but not as loud as before. What was the point? He couldn't
hear me anyway. Now it was merely an empty ritual.
I leveled my M16 at him
and flipped the selector to full auto. I mentally asked
myself, "Do I really want to shoot this guy?" I answered
myself, "No, I don't want to shoot him." My next thought
was the realization that other men in a cool situation
had decided that under these conditions, a challenge
unheeded, the security policeman would shoot to kill.
No one had ever told me what to do if I challenged someone
and they didn't hear me! Well, I now had to shoot, I
was a security policeman, that was my duty, that's what
I was here for. All this went through my mind in a couple
of seconds.
I fixed my sights on his
torso. He was going away from me now, but it was still
going to be an easy shot. My heart was beating fast.
I was about to kill a man, he didn't have a chance. He
was about to be killed. This healthy, living human being
was about to become dead! I began to apply pressure to
my trigger. My heart was racing. Other security policemen
who had heard Bravo-One-Four, were waiting to see if
Bravo-One-Three would shoot to kill in accordance with
established procedures. It occurred to me that the biker
would probably see a tracer round come out of his body
before he fell, slid and died.
I was increasing the pressure
on the trigger, I was going to try for a three to five
round burst. Just then, from the dim blue lights of the
runway beyond him, I realized for the first time that
he was a big guy, and that his bike was no Honda 90.
He was an American!!! I raised my rifle muzzle and set
the selector back to safe. I picked up my radio
and blurted out, "Bravo-One-Three, Defense Control!!!"
There was no reply. In my excitement my words were unintelligible.
Ashamed of my excitement, I took a deep breath. I had
almost killed a guy, an American! In a more calm voice
I said, "Bravo-One-Three, Defense Control, be advised
I challenged the individual, he kept on going."
Defense Control replied,
"Ten-four Bravo-One-Three, what direction is he going
in?"
"Be advised," I said,
"he's going east." Defense Control called a SAT team
and instructed them to cut him off and tell him to get
off the taxiway. I heard later he was a civilian construction
worker. Very likely an employee of Brown and Root. I
understand they did a lot of work in Vietnam and that
Lady Bird Johnson owned a lot of their stock.
I never heard exactly
what happened with the SAT team, but I can picture in
my mind what may have happened. I picture a security
police jeep parked on the taxiway, headlights shinning
toward the biker. I picture the SAT team leader and the
grenadier standing on the left side of the jeep, with
M16's at the ready. They did not know he was an American.
I picture the machine gunner and the Vietnamese troop
of the right side of the jeep, weapons at the ready.
I picture the biker slowing to a stop,... confused.
I picture a young buck sergeant approaching the biker
and asking him to shut off his very loud bike. I picture
the young buck sergeant asking him, "Didn't you hear
that security policeman challenge you back there?" I
picture the biker asking, "What security policeman?"
I picture the buck sergeant saying, "You were challenged
back there, he fired a shot over your head,... you
came close to dying tonight." I picture the color draining
from the biker's face and a knot forming in his stomach.
I picture the security policeman ordering him to get
off the taxiway, and to never get on it again.
Several months later, I was working
law enforcement. One night I was manning a gate that
separated the Air Base from a small green beret camp
at the southeast corner. A civilian construction worker
came walking down the road that ran nearby and stopped
to chat. In our conversation he mentioned that he stayed
away from the west side of the base. "I nearly got shot
over there one night," he said in a very serious tone.
This guy was big, about 6'4" and husky. He had short
unkept brown hair and a thin brown mustache. He appeared
to be in his early thirties, an old guy. Could this have
been the man I had decided to kill? I didn't know. I
stared hard at him, "That might have been me," I said
softly in my own disbelief. But my comment didn't register
with him. He took a long drag from his cigarette and
stared straight ahead intently. He seemed to be reliving
those moments again in his mind, and it was not pleasant.
To him the whole west side of the base was off limits
after dark. He didn't go over there. He'd almost been
shot and killed over there one night.
|
