First Day at Song Be
submitted by: Alva Leon Matheson
I had attended AGOS, and in October of 1962 I was promoted to captain. I also had some experience as a FAC due to a 30 day TDY at the Army’s Yakima Training Center in Washington in 1959 where I worked F-100s from a Jeep equipped with an UHF radio. I volunteered, was accepted, and arrived at Tan Son Nhut AB shortly thereafter.
Major Hal G. Bowers was in charge of in-country assignments. Because of my experience, he promised to find me a good job. In the meanwhile, I checked out in the VNAF’s L-19s at Tan Son Nhut and Bien Hoa. Additionally, I accompanied Army advisors to various locations, either on hunting missions in the jungle, or to inspect the Strategic Hamlet Program. We always traveled to villages via the CH-21 “Banana Boats,” a really scary helicopter. They were painted Army green but had huge red meatballs on the sides and top. The meatballs were supposed to help in locating any helicopter down in the jungle. To me, they looked like large bulls eyes and when I pointed that out to one of the pilots, I was told that if the helicopter “flew in a crab, the gunners could not accurately fire at the machine.” I’ve often wondered how long that obviously flawed idea lasted.
While in Saigon, I stayed in the Votahn Apartment House with several Americans stationed at Tan Son Nhut. My memory of Saigon was that it was big, noisy, and dirty. The streets were filled with pedicabs and tiny taxis. Scooters were everywhere, often with a beautiful young Vietnamese girl riding sidesaddle in the native costume, the ao dai. There were lots of uniformed Vietnamese. Most looked like teenagers trying to emulate John Wayne.
We were cautioned to watch for the “Bread Man,” a VC who rode on the back of a motor-scooter and tossed grenades, imbedded in loaves of bread, over walls in places where Americans gathered. Military buses had a strong wire mesh over all their windows to deter grenades. It was the first time I’d ever seen anything like that.
Sometimes I stayed in the Majestic Hotel. I usually returned in red clay-caked fatigues with an AR-15 in one hand and a .45 pistol hanging low in a western type holster, a bright red Aussie bush hat on the back of my head. The tourists in the lobby and bar would invariably stop dead and stare at me. At first, I though they confused me with John Wayne. Later I figured it was probably the smell that caught their attention.
The Rex hotel was just a few blocks away and there was an American O’Club. Even though only 5,000 Americans were in-country at the time, just about everyone I knew seemed to pass through there sooner or later. I met a colonel at the Club who told me he always shot VC in the belt line as that’s where they carried their grenades and he could trade blood-covered grenades for equipment. I’ve wondered in later years if the colonel might have been Bull Simmons. He was one mean looking piece of work.
It wasn’t too long before I got the call that my duty assignment would be Song Be in Phuoc Long Province, about 60 miles north of Saigon near the Cambodian Border. I gathered my equipment and rode up to Song Be on an Army C-7A Caribou with an Army brigadier general who, along with his entourage, was going to Song Be for a briefing.
At the time, all Americans stationed at Song Be were Rangers and SF, and never more than about 12 while I was there. There was a difference between SF and Green Berets. Only those soldiers living in the villages could wear the Green Beret. Those not assigned to Montagnard village duty could not wear the beret and were known as SF. The point is that all Green Berets were SFs but not all SFs were Green Berets.
We were met at the airstrip, about eight kilometers from the village of Song Be. The senior Americans present were Major Nulsen, the Chief Army Advisor, and his assistant, Major Pitts. Both were West Pointers. With the advisors was Lieutenant Colonel Dien, who was a favorite of the then President Diem. Colonel Dien was the Phuoc Long Province Chief and the military commander of three provinces: Phuoc Long, Binh Long, and Phuoc Vinh. Collectively, the three provinces were known as The Phuoc Bien Thanh Special Zone. I was to be the ALO/FAC for the Zone.
All the Americans on the Advisory Team turned out to meet us and I caught a ride into Song Be with an army second lieutenant named Keenan and a captain named Rivera. Lieutenant Keenan seemed pretty old to be a second lieutenant; a good bit older than I was. I was 26. Frank Rivera was about my age and was born in Columbia. Both were Rangers.
Our arrival was evidently timed for lunch and we convoyed in to Colonel Dien’s quarters. The table was set in the western manner with white linen tablecloths and napkins along with silver and stemware. The food was already on the table and I immediately noticed all the food was covered with flies. So as I sat down, I began to brush them away. To my embarrassment, no one else seemed to notice the flies, so I ignored them too. The food, Vietnamese fare, was delicious. Several young girls stood behind the table, set for about 20, and served us.
After the meal, Colonel Dien presented a VC flag to one of the Rangers leaving for the US. Colonel Dien’s accent was difficult to understand, but he did quite well with the presentation. I learned later that he could also speak French, not an unusual thing for Vietnamese officers.
After the presentation, we walked over to Colonel Dien’s headquarters building where he had a large map set up. He began to brief the military situation in his area. Not long into the briefing, he began to lose control of his English and said, “Excuse me General, but I’m unable to continue in English, would you mind if Lieutenant Keenan came up and interpreted for me?” The General told him that it would be fine.
I had sat next to Lieutenant Keenan at lunch. He told me he was from Miami, Arizona, and had joined the Army to get out of the copper mines. He had gone through OCS after having obtained the rank of sergeant first class.
Lieutenant Keenan mounted the podium and Colonel Dien rattled off a string of tonal Vietnamese at him. Using the map, Lieutenant Keenan traced the movement and suspected locations of the VC and North Vietnamese Regulars in the Phuoc Bien Thanh Special Zone. Wow! I thought these two guys really have a good act going. Then there was something Lieutenant Keenan evidently didn’t understand, and he shot a string of Vietnamese back at the Colonel. Whoa, I thought, this guy Keenan is no casual Vietnamese speaker; he’s had lessons somewhere. Later, Keenan told me he attended the one-year language school at Monterey and that he spoke High Vietnamese better than he spoke English.
The General took his leave after thanking both Colonel Dien and Lieutenant Keenan for the briefing. I didn’t go back out to the landing field and Keenan, Rivera and a SF captain named Joe Zummo took me to the sleeping quarters, a large room where everyone except Majors Nulsen and Pitts slept. The accommodations were cots under mosquito nets.
As I was unpacking, the three soldiers had field stripped my AR-15 although none had ever seen one before. They also wanted to see my “blade” – my knife. They never called a knife a knife. It was always called a “blade.” So I took out my AF survival knife and showed it to them. They soon were on the floor laughing and passing my little “blade” back and forth. Their merriment exhausted, one of them produced a Randall knife catalog. We sat on my cot and decided what sort of “blade” I should have. A model 14 was selected and I wrote the Randall Company for a price list. Surprisingly, the “blade” was sent to me by return mail. My name, rank, and Service were stamped near the hilt. There was a hand-written note from Bo Randall, the owner of the Company, saying that he thought I probably needed the “blade” immediately, so he had taken the liberty of sending it along. The note also read, “the price is $30.00 and you can pay it when you get the chance if you decide to keep it.” I still have my “blade.”
After stowing my gear and being assigned a window to protect in case of attack, the three troopers escorted me to the work area, a large open room of pier and beam construction with screen walls. The kitchen was also located in the work area, concealed behind a partial wall. Vietnamese cooks, under the supervision of a Ranger NCO, were at work. The Ranger had the duty because an aerosol can blew up while he was burning trash and his eyes were temporarily damaged.
Several desks, tables, chairs, benches, and lounges completed the work area. A bed sheet hung at one end of the room to act as a screen for a movie that had come up on the Caribou that day. Majors Nulsen and Pitts had their own desks, the rest of us had to share. The troopers showed me how to work an FM radio that was sitting on one of the chairs and I spent the rest of the afternoon meeting and explaining my mission to the Army guys since I was the first AF guy to be stationed at Song Be. I was surprised at the formality that existed in the Army. The young captains like Rivera and Zummo called the more senior captains “sir,” something we didn’t do in the AF.
Dinner, or supper as the Army called it, was served at exactly 1700 and consisted of Vietnamese vegetables and canned American meat and potatoes. We sat down at the benches and the Vietnamese cooks served us. As we were eating, a loud hammer-like stutter filled the air. I was literally the only one still sitting. Everyone else was on the floor with sidearms drawn. Quietly and gently, I too slipped to the floor, wondering what had happened.
There was a communications truck parked just outside of the building and the radio operator in the truck was fooling with his .45 caliber M-1A “Grease Gun” when he accidentally touched off a burst through the ceiling. He sheepishly came out of the van and looking through the screen told us what happened. As best I can recall, no one seemed very upset over the incident.
Later that evening, I helped set up the room to watch the movie. I remember it starred Stella Stevens. The first reel ended on a particularly sexy note, but the second reel was delayed while the first was rewound. Thinking only non-English speaking Vietnamese women were in the building I shouted out in true fighter pilot manner, “I’M GONNA F@#%* EVERY WOMAN IN THE HOUSE!”
I was totally mortified when I heard a small voice say “Mommy...?” Looking around the lounge, I could see there was a civilian couple with two small children seated behind us.
“Oh my God, Frank,” I whispered, “who are those people?”
“He’s a Canadian missionary and she’s his American wife. She cooks us pies and we invite them to see the movies.”
“Oh God, how can I apologize,” I asked.
Frank said, “She’s probably heard a lot worse, don’t worry about it.” I stayed buried in my chair until they left, and Frank kept me company.
And so ended my first day in the Province of Phuoc Long in the village of Song Be at the base of Nui Ba Ra Mountain in the Year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and sixty-two.