When I arrived in Vietnam in August 1970, I was relatively clueless about a phenomenon that had infected Army units there, one that was unique to Vietnam in its scope and impact. Something I had not learned about at West Point or Ranger School and for which I was totally unprepared. A phenomenon that had become so common that soldiers in Vietnam had even given it a unique nickname, “fragging”.
“Fragging” was the practice of using a fragmentation grenade to wound, kill, or send a strong message to a U.S. military officer or NCO. The perpetrators were most often young, enlisted men angry about serving in a war that was highly unpopular back home and feeling no loyalty to leaders who were constantly coming and going as Army units were being withdrawn from Vietnam.
The victims were most often junior officers and NCOs, referred to disparagingly as “lifers” because they were perceived as being overly aggressive in conducting combat operations or enforcing Army discipline. The weapon of choice in such assaults was the fragmentation grenade, which was easily accessible to most soldiers and could not be traced back to the user. There were more than 900 confirmed fraggings in Vietnam during the period 1969 to 1973, the only years official records were kept. I was one of those fragged.
I was in my second month serving as the night duty officer for the tactical operations center (TOC) of the 1st Battalion 503rd Infantry 173rd Airborne Brigade when my boss, the battalion operations officer, walked in the door. “John, I need to speak with you in private. Stop by my office after you complete the morning debrief for the battalion staff.” Major Needham was on his second Vietnam tour with the 173rd Airborne Brigade and was highly respected by the brigade leadership. When I arrived at his office, he got right to the point. “E Troop, 17th Cavalry has some significant discipline problems, and a more experienced leader recently replaced the troop commander. A new and very seasoned first sergeant will be arriving soon from the 101st Airborne. You are being reassigned as the troop executive officer. I recommended you. I know you will do well in this job, but you will be very challenged. If you ever need advice or someone to talk to about a problem, don’t hesitate to come see me.” he offered.
As I left the room, I recalled a conversation I had a month earlier with a classmate who was serving in E Troop. Chuck Anstrom and I were close friends, having shared an apartment at Fort Riley for six months and traveled to Vietnam together. We had not seen each other since arriving in Vietnam, and he had stopped by the 1st Battalion TOC to visit. Chuck shared with me that his recent troop commander, a member of the West Point Class of 68, had relinquished his command in protest to what he considered a lack of support from his superiors. I knew his former commander well and remembered him as a standout cadet at West Point. I was disappointed that his military career had taken such a devastating turn. Chuck also told me about our classmate Terry O’Boyle, an E Troop platoon leader who had been killed just a few months earlier. Terry’s track vehicle had exploded from within, killing the entire crew shortly after he had left LZ English on a road march. There was no enemy action involved, leading investigators to conclude that the explosion had been caused by a freak accident or something more sinister. https://thedaysforward.com/semi-final-resting-place/
On 24 February 1971, I joined E Troop at Landing Zone (LZ) English. When I arrived, I learned the troop was conducting combat operations in An Khe, a half-day drive by jeep. Consequently, my interface with my troop commander would be primarily by radio. Instead, my immediate boss would be the 173rd Support Battalion commander, who, besides E Troop, had the overwhelming responsibility for the brigade combat engineers, signal, intelligence, maintenance, and supply, as well as all civilians and other personnel living or employed on LZ English. A major, pending promotion to lieutenant colonel, he was a strong leader and someone who truly cared about those he led. He let me know right away what he expected from me. “E Troop has some significant discipline challenges and you and the troop commander and first sergeant are all newly assigned. I expect the three of you to fix the problems there. You have my full support. Please do not hesitate to come to my office when you need help.” He would be true to this promise, as I would learn.
The E Troop area was large, with multiple sandbagged barracks and a large motor pool. The troop orderly room included a communications center in the rear and a single, private bedroom where I slept. One of the first things I observed was that I had almost forty soldiers in the rear, more than a dozen of whom were addicted to drugs and awaiting discharge from the Army.
The Army had no drug treatment program and instead simply gave such soldiers dishonorable discharges and sent them back to society. While awaiting discharge, these undisciplined soldiers may be in the rear for months, guarding the bunker line, filling sandbags, or getting in trouble. One of the soldiers I was now responsible for was addicted to heroin and spent his days passed out in an empty barracks, which he had darkened by covering all the windows. Most of the time, when I spoke with him, he was incoherent. The first sergeant and I conducted regular sweeps of our area for drugs and found them almost every day hidden under a sandbag or in the latrine or other common area. There was little else we could do besides keep our problem soldiers busy and hope their dishonorable discharge would be quickly approved and they would be returned to the States.
On the afternoon of 16 March, I was surprised to see a South Korean major in a flight uniform standing at my orderly room door. The first sergeant said he wanted to see me about a matter involving one of our soldiers. In near-perfect English, the major explained that he was a helicopter pilot and that he had flown into our LZ landing pad. “One of your soldiers, named Ward**, approached me and started a conversation,” he said. “He was admiring my Chicom pistol and asked if he could show it to his friends while I refueled. I watched him enter one of your barracks, but he never returned with the pistol”. As I stared at the major, I wanted to say, “How could you be so foolish?” but I didn’t. He was a senior officer from an allied nation. I didn’t feel I could ignore his complaint.
The first sergeant and I went to the barracks where PFC Ward and a half dozen other soldiers were resting. I had been the executive officer for less than a month, and the first sergeant had to point Ward out to me. He was a tall, thin soldier, only nineteen years old. I announced why I was there and questioned him in detail. With a smirk on his face and playing up to his fellow soldiers, he denied knowing anything about the missing weapon. I searched his belongings and the bunks nearby and found nothing. Back in the orderly room, I told the Korean major, “We have not found your pistol, and I have no evidence to allow me to take any action against Private Ward.” The major left, and I assumed that was the end of the matter, but I was wrong.
I was sleeping in my room adjacent to the orderly room that night when an explosion awakened me. The air in my room was full of the distinct odor of military explosives. I noticed a large hole in the floor near the foot of my bunk, and my first thought was that an enemy mortar round had hit the orderly room. I quickly slipped on my fatigues and boots, grabbed my flak jacket and rife, and ran outside. The first sergeant was organizing our soldiers, expecting that we were under attack and needed to head to our assigned bunkers on the perimeter of the LZ. As we stood there, he looked down at me and said, “Sir, you have been hit. Blood is running down your legs.” In my excitement, I was feeling no pain and had not noticed my wounds. My jeep driver immediately took me to the aid station, where I was evacuated by helicopter to the military hospital in Qui Nhon; There, surgery was performed to remove multiple fragments from my ankles. It was not until my troop commander visited me a few days later that I learned that I had been fragged and that Private Ward had been arrested and charged with attempted murder. Those words shocked me. Had a soldier in the United States Army who hardly knew me tried to take my life over a souvenir pistol? I returned to duty a few weeks later, but it was almost two months before I learned the answer to that question.
In May, the first sergeant and I, as well as a half dozen of our soldiers scheduled to testify, flew to Da Nang for the trial of Private Ward. For the first time, I learned what happened that day in March. Several soldiers in the barracks that day testified that as I was stepping out after my search for the stolen pistol, one of Ward’s friends had whispered, “Something needs to be done about that, Lieutenant,” to which Ward had quietly responded, “Frag Out,” A young sergeant testified that he was the duty NCO for the bunker guard and Ward was one of the soldiers on bunker duty that night. Ward had taken a break to go to the latrine, and several minutes later, a loud explosion had been heard. The attack alarm for the entire LZ had been sounded and Ward had come running back into his bunker. Later, Ward could not account for one of the grenades he had been issued. Ward himself did not testify, but the prosecutor suggested that Ward had walked the short distance from the latrine to the orderly room where I was sleeping, removed a few sandbags, and tossed the grenade under my quarters, clearly with the intent to kill or wound me. The court martial found Ward guilty and sentenced him to nine years in prison for his crime. He was from the Midwest and would be returning there, not to his family but to prison in Leavenworth, Kansas.
Fraggings in Vietnam were incredibly hard to prove, as a grenade thrown into a leader’s armored vehicle or a foxhole might also be the result of enemy action. By one estimate, in addition to the more than 900 officers and NCOs wounded or killed in known fragging incidents, another 1,400 died under mysterious circumstances, my classmate Terry O’Boyle being one of them. It is estimated that fewer than 10% of those who tried to kill their leaders were ever caught, tried, and convicted.
In response to the attempt on my life, the pace at which problem soldiers in the 173rd were discharged improved dramatically. By the time, I returned from the hospital, all the E Troop soldiers pending discharge for drug use were gone. The final five months of my time as a troop executive officer were challenging but without any major incidents.
In August 1971, the 173rd Airborne Brigade, the first major combat unit deployed in the Vietnam War, folded its colors and returned to the States. More than a dozen classmates and I returned that same month as the very last officers to serve in the 173rd in Vietnam. Our war was over.
** Ward is a pseudonym.
