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West Point Class of 1969

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By Bernie Tatro

Oct 04 2020

On the Importance of Maintenance – 1970

Late in February 1970 I made my first trans-Atlantic trip, reporting to the 3rd Armored Division in what was then West Germany. For most of the next 18 months I was assigned as a Platoon Leader to 1st Bn/36 Infantry at a remote Brigade-size base called Ayers Kaserne, located in Kirchgöns, about 30 miles from Frankfurt. Our late classmate Dick Luecke, and classmate Bob King (C1) were among classmates assigned to the same battalion.

As part of the 3rd Armored Division, we utilized the M113 Armored Personnel Carrier (called “APC’s” or “tracks”). Maintenance consumed much of the daily training schedule. It became pretty boring. Supposedly, we were at the end of the supply chain: priority for almost everything was Vietnam, South Korea, CONUS (Continental U.S.) …and, eventually, Ayers Kaserne. So, keeping equipment in running order was a challenge.

But even at the end of the supply line, there were “haves” and “have nots”. When M16’s finally reached us, we turned in our M14’s and began M16 familiarization. A rifle maintenance issue quickly reared its ugly head. We were an Infantry battalion with no M16 rifle cleaning patches.

Cleaning Patches

Note: For those unfamiliar with firearm maintenance, patches are critical for applying solvent and oil to keep the weapon clean and operational. Fortunately, I located a classmate in a Field Artillery battery who had M16 patches and was willing to share with his friendly neighborhood grunts.

All this is to provide some supply and maintenance background for the main event:

Later in 1970 I was assigned as Weapons Platoon Leader. On company field exercises, the Weapons Platoon typically acted as Aggressors. Since we were “The Bad Guys”, we could take liberties with uniforms. While the Rifle Companies wore helmets during exercises, we could wear the always-fashionable baseball-style cap, similar to the headgear we wore with fatigues as cadets.

On one such exercise the Company Commander ordered me to take a few of my guys and set up an ambush. We piled into a nearby Jeep, threw our weapons and gear in the trailer it hauled, and took off to complete our mission.

Army Jeep with Trailer

We were making good time driving on a 2-lane back country road. The only other vehicle on the road was a Volkswagen Bus being driven by a German man. Apparently, he was in a hurry because he followed us rather closely.

Volkswagen Bus

We reached our turn-off on the left, an open dirt area where we could pick up the trail into the woods. Our driver made a left turn. I never found out if he signaled or not, but it would not have mattered: the taillight was inoperative. Seeing no signal, the tailgating VW bus did not react quickly enough to avoid a collision. He struck the trailer while we were mid-turn, initiating a series of events:

  • The Jeep and trailer spun and turned 180 degrees;
  • Continuing into a complete 360-degree roll, landing right side up in the dirt area;
  • During the roll, the aluminum supports which normally hold up the soft top crumpled and;
  • The windshield collapsed and the glass shattered.

Recovering from the roll, I think I had two nearly simultaneous concerns:

  1. Are my soldiers okay?
  2. Why can’t I see?

Addressing the second question, I did exactly the wrong thing:  I rubbed my eyes. Since Jeeps at the time did not feature safety glass, I had fine glass particles in my eyes. Fortunately, my vision cleared with no apparent damage. Apparently, the windshield only shattered on the passenger side because my driver did not experience any harm from glass.

As for my soldiers, thanks to World War II technology, all were okay. Allow me to explain:  All but one of the guys were wearing baseball caps. The exception happened to be the tallest man in the Jeep. He was wearing his WW II-style helmet, usually referred to as a steel pot. He proudly showed me the black streak on his helmet where his head had scraped blacktop during the roll. He and the others were unhurt.

Helmet Minus the Blacktop Streak

When we eventually made it back to Ayers Kaserne, I checked in at the clinic. The doctor examined my eyes and determined that there were still glass particles present. He put something colored into each eye. Under light, the glass was visible against the color. Using what appeared to be a thin glass rod, he probed each eyeball and removed the remaining glass particles. A half century later, I can report that there was no lasting damage. I can also report that I never again thought maintenance was boring.

Unfortunately, that was not my only Jeep-related incident. In 1971 I made my first trans-Pacific trip. By 1972 I was with my second unit in Vietnam, a battalion of the 525th Military Intelligence Group, stationed at a small camp on the perimeter of the Tan Son Nhut Airport. The unit had a maintenance stand down, taking all vehicles out of service for required maintenance. The Motor Pool was at a separate location. I drove my jeep over and got a ride back to camp. A few hours later the jeep was ready. I got a ride back to the motor pool, picked up the jeep, and started driving.

Most of the road around Tan Son Nhut was paved. Since our camp was at a remote location, the paved road eventually ended, and a dirt road began.

The road was empty in the direction I was heading, so the jeep was moving at a pretty good pace. I slowed down to transition to the dirt road. Just as the jeep went from paved to dirt, the front wheel on the driver’s side parted company with the jeep; it went left while the rest of the jeep swerved right. Since my speed was reduced, I was able to brake the jeep without any further damage to it (or me).

I walked the rest of the way to the camp and called the motor pool. They came out, towed the jeep away, and made repairs. Later, I was informed that a cotter pin had been omitted from the wheel assembly, and that was supposedly the cause of this mishap. Once again, a small part made a big difference.

Lots of Cotter Pins

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  Since leaving the Army I have owned two Jeeps. Both had Roll Bars and Safety Glass and were meticulously maintained, including tire rotation. No shortages of turning lights or cotter pins have been noted.

Written by Suzanne Rice · Categorized: By Bernie Tatro

May 04 2020

The Dogs of Camp DeBeau – 1972

During the final months of my Vietnam tour I was assigned to a support battalion at Camp Debeau on the Tan Son Nhut Airbase perimeter outside Saigon. Most officers lived in a Saigon hotel, but I was one of five who lived in two man “hooches”. Since American involvement in the war was winding down, the other occupant of my hooch was not replaced when he returned to the States. I had it all to myself.

A previous occupant added a sign identifying the hooch as the “Saigon Hilton”. Like the other two hooches it was a small structure surrounded by “blast barrels,” 55-gallon drums filled with sand to absorb shrapnel.

Bernie’s “Saigon Hilton” hooch closest to the water tower

 

(Note blast barrels around each hooch.)

One of Camp DeBeau’s attractions was a pack of semi-wild dogs. These dogs knew that if they appeared outside the mess hall at the end of the day, they would receive any leftovers. You could set your watch by those dogs.

Dogs of DeBeau

My favorite thing about the dogs was that they would bark at any Vietnamese who entered the camp. As the only Infantry officer in the battalion, I was responsible for defense of the camp and felt that the dogs added a bit of security.

So, it was with some concern when in the middle of the night I was awoken by barking. It seemed to be coming from the far side of the camp, near the generator – a likely *sapper objective. Soon, the barking got louder as the dogs charged in the direction of my hooch, clearly in hot pursuit. As was the case with everyone except the guard, I was unarmed. I took some comfort knowing that about 50 feet away the officer and non-commissioned officer of the day were in the headquarters building and were armed.

There wasn’t much time to wonder what to do as the intruder jumped on the blast barrels and leapt on my roof. The dogs surrounded my hooch and the barking reached a frenzy. Clearly panicked, I heard the intruder’s footsteps run across my roof as he tried to leap to safety. As he leapt, the dogs went wild – and were suddenly quiet. A few sniffs and huffs, and then they dispersed.

A quick look out the door, and I ran to headquarters. The officer was asleep in a cot, and the non-commissioned officer had his head down on a desk, also asleep. I woke him up, but obviously he had heard nothing.

The dilemma now was whether or not to sound the alarm.  Had the dogs vanquished the intruder, or might he return with reinforcements? For reasons I can’t explain (or remember), I did not sound the alarm.

In the morning I walked around the hooch to look for signs of the enemy. I found his body behind the hooch, between the wall and the blast barrels. Clearly his leap had ended badly, as his neck was obviously broken. One less cat in Vietnam.

*Technically, a sapper is a military engineer.  In Vietnam the term was used to indicate someone who could infiltrate through the defensive line, disarming booby traps and possibly placing explosives.

Written by Suzanne Rice · Categorized: By Bernie Tatro

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