By Wayne Murphy

     Getting home was a full-time goal in July 1971.  It was on what I concentrated my thoughts and days.  I found out that I could get a “drop” of two days if I was able to get the direct flight from Saigon’s Tan Son Nhut airbase to McGuire in New Jersey.  There would be no need for another civilian flight from the west coast.  Battalion arranged it and I left early.

     We were flown from Phu Bai by C-130 to Saigon — my first and only visit to the capital.  It was a different Vietnam and seemed quite secure.  Troops were in Khakis and the roads were bustling.  We were billeted in barracks much like arrival at Long Binh as I recall and had a whole new out processing again that took several days – mostly because we all had to undergo drug tests.  If you failed, you were extended to rehab as the Army did not want to return current addicts to the states.  Some troops were a bit anxious as we waited the test results.

    We also were able to purchase new uniforms and put our ribbons together.  The climate played hell with mold and mildew on the stuff we brought with us.  I had several awards to which I was entitled.  Of course, I had the US Bronze Star medal with “V” for valor and Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry with Silver Star for Lam San 719 which I was proud to have.  Interestingly, I would later get the citations for each.  According to the US citation, I cleared numerous enemy mines – most all were Marine mines.  And the Vietnamese apparently divided the killed enemy and weapons captured in an operation among medal recipients – I got credit for 37 kills but killed no one I knew of in the operation. 

     I also had another Bronze Star and Army Commendation Medal from the division for service in a combat zone.  These two were called “roster awards” in the division.  If you kept yourself clean and alive for six months you got the Commendation Medal, for ten months the Bronze Star – they were for honorable service in the combat area and issued by roster lists — I did not think too much of them.  I also got the US Vietnam Service Ribbon and the Vietnam Campaign Medal for the same thing – being there.  I was really glad not to have a Purple Heart, but so very respectful and proud of those who did.  The guys next to me got hit, but for some reason God spared me.

     The third medal I was proud of was an Air Medal award.  In WWII you received an air medal after 30 combat missions in an aircraft (like B-29 missions over Germany).  In the airmobile Army, you got one for 30 combat assault helicopter flights.  Pilots and crews had dozens of awards – many oak leaf clusters.  All you had to do is keep track of the CAs (combat assaults) you were on.  LTC Rodolph’s staff had turned our officers on to the recognition and submitted our guys when we hit 30.  I had one award.

     I want to make something clear about military awards.  I was around some very brave men – men who acted without regard to their own lives and in defense of their buddies.  Sometimes, they get recognized with a medal because someone else takes the time to recommend them and write the justification.  That did not always happen because of time or circumstance.  With the exception of LTC Rodolph’s Silver Star, all the valor awards I saw awarded were earned – Chaplain Young’s stands out.  I guess service awards are for doing your job.  Not sure where that ends and exceptional effort begins.  There were a lot of exceptional and brave guys in Vietnam without many military awards.

     Anyway, we finally left Saigon on a commercial airliner and the cheer was deafening as the plane took off. 

We again flew for hours through Japan and across the polar ice cap.  I remember how beautiful the Great Lakes were from 35,000 feet. 

     We arrived at the New Jersey airbase and processed through customs.  I had no souvenir weapons or stuff, and my jungle fatigues and gear were taken from me at Saigon.  The customs agent at the base was very nice and he said, “Welcome home, Captain.”  That was my first greeting.

     Several family members met other troopers, but I knew I would be alone.  I had hoped to surprise Mary Ellen with my early return and planned to take a bus to New York and another to Teaneck.  She knew a “drop” was possible, but I still thought I could surprise her.  She knew the plane was down and I had returned.  In those days information was given out readily.

     I took the bus to New York’s Port Authority Building in Manhattan.  I was in clean Khakis with my ribbons and carrying my B4 bag.

To most everyone I was invisible.  Several in the station did look at me and then quickly away – one hippie- type spit in my general direction.  Homecoming was not so welcoming an affair from many of my countrymen.  On the bus to New Jersey, I sat near the driver — nice guy.  We passed some girls in hot pants (real short, tight pants) that had become popular while I was away.  I stared and he said, “Well, soldier, some things have gotten better.”  I agreed. 

     I got off the bus at Queen Anne Road and Cedar Lane as I recall and walked the several blocks to Grayson Place.  My pace quickened with each step, and I hoped that Mary Ellen and Sean would be home.  I rang the doorbell and her Mom answered.  I walked in and Mary Ellen leaped at me from the kitchen.  She was wearing a yellow hot pants outfit and I thought she never looked more beautiful – lucky guy I was, indeed.  We kissed and held each other like there was no tomorrow, and her parents retreated to the kitchen.

      Sean was not there.  Anne Marie and Kathy, Mary Ellen’s sisters, had taken him out for a walk in his carriage.  Soon they returned and I held him for the first time in my life.  What a feeling!

     After some calls to my folks and an evening together, we traveled the next day to Port Chester to see my Mom and Dad.  While the year had been hard on Mary Ellen and me, I really did not appreciate the tough time I had put my parents, brothers, and sister through.  We all enjoyed the reunion. 

     One of our neighbors down the street had penned a makeshift sign and put it on the lawn.  All it said was “Welcome Back Capt Murphy.”

This is the final chapter of a seventeen-part series, entitled “Pop’s War”, written originally for and dedicated to the Murphy grandchildren.

The time passed quickly as we finished the fortifications on Rifle and prepared a turnover to the ARVN.  The attack we had weathered was apparently more than an isolated action.  We were told that several firebases had been hit throughout Vietnam that night in some kind of celebration of Ho Chi Minh’s birthday month.  We seemed to have the fewest killed and division was happy about that, but we used a shitload of ordinance to get only seven confirmed kills.  They were not happy with that.

     My relationship with the men was very good and we had deepened our bond a little more.  You know the line about “he who sheds his blood with me” from Shakespeare and the Band of Brothers thing.  However, with another eight new guys about a third of the platoon turned over.  I try to recall their names.  I can see their faces, but maybe it was a defense thing that we just cannot remember each other.  The constant turnover contributed to the “detachment” I fear.  The WWII 101^st “Band of Brothers” went through training together and fought together for less than a year (Jun 44-May 45).   But they were kept together.

Anyway, other than my classmates, I really never saw any of my guys again.  That may be why my class from West Point is so cohesive – we trained, fought, and served together for many years.

     On 4 June 1971 there was a rather large promotion ceremony at the 326^th Engineers.  All the Class of 1969 made Captain.  The Army was hurting for officers at almost all levels.  We were one year to 1^st LT and one year to Captain.  (I would get an “early” promotion to Major seven years later in the drawn down volunteer Army – the end of the war really slowed promotions.)  Tours were very short in company command (six months) and even battalion command (one year).  Cohesive was not a term to describe any unit. 

     In any case, we had to move up – that meant leaving the platoon.  I think (rank of or description of) SFC Tietz was actually glad – he now could take it over without an officer “in the way.”  I still worked at Rifle for a while.

     On one afternoon LTC Rodolph landed and inspected the base.  It was a good inspection, and he was very pleased with our product and actions.  At this time, I was close to the men and had the same thoughts as they – get home and get out.  The Colonel offered me a chance at company command.  I would get a 30 day stateside leave but have to extend for another six months back in country.  He argued how great that would be for my career.  I told him as strongly as I could that my only “career” move was to get home to Mary Ellen and Sean. 

     He also held a 101^st Airborne Association membership form and an AUSA membership form.  He wanted 100% of his officers enrolled and had noticed I had not joined.  I told him I was in the field and not particularly interested – my Company Commander had not been very successful in his recruitment attempt.  He held an excellent Officer Efficiency Report in his hand and the applications in the other.  He told me I should not waste my efforts in-country with a silly mistake of not joining.  I joined – but became even more certain I was getting out of his Army ASAP.

      He did ask if I liked my next assignment (he was the former head of Engineer branch in DC) and I told him I really would have liked Ft Carson, but that Bragg and the airborne were fine.  He smiled.

     LTC Rodolph turned over command to LTC Sisniak in June.  LTC Sisniak was a good guy, but I was with him only a short time.  LTC Rodolph was quite an egotist, but also quite effective and with no lack of courage.  I think he just was feeling badly that this war placed him away from the action, and he longed to be a part of it.  I ran into him in Hawaii in 1978.  He was the head facility engineer in Oahu and I was in the Pacific Ocean Division of the Corps.  He had a beautiful home on the north shore, never made flag rank, and did his military retirement there. He passed in New Mexico in 2007.

     My duties in late June and July were as the executive officer of C Company, over slotted as a Captain in a 1LT position.  I ran the admin for the company and visited the platoon from time to time.  One duty had to do with “C Day” as I recall.

     In Vietnam the troops were not paid in US Dollars, but MPC (Military Payment Certificates) or script.  Most of your pay was in allotment home or to an in-country GI savings account.  Congress did not tax your pay while in a combat zone.  You drew MPC enough to buy sodas, PX items, haircuts (in the field we had a kit used by a designated trooper), etc.  The troops were not supposed to buy directly from the locals, but they did (prostitution, drugs, etc.)  Some guys made money gambling or selling drugs.

     To thwart these black-market dealings, we would have a C Day in-country.  A very highly classified day when in a 24-hour period all MPC would be exchanged for new MPC making the old stuff as useful as monopoly money.  There was a limit on how much a troop could exchange.  Bases were sealed and the exchange done.  Needless to say, a whole new market on exchange rates occurred.  Some ladies would even try to get through the wire to cash in old stuff.  If a troop was over his limit, only an officer’s affidavit explaining the overage allowed exchange – usual reason was gambling winnings.

     Anyway, for some reason, I got to bring the new MPC to our Camp Evans guys.  Also, for some reason, I could not get a bird and that meant driving there through Hue and up QL1 with all that “new” money.  That was a cool ride and passed the local university.  Different kind of ladies and gents at the university area – the traditional white dress over black outfits and conical hats you see in some movies.  Also, the girls of mixed race (mostly French-Vietnamese) were quite pretty and my driver liked the trip. 

     As we got near the bridge over the Perfume River in downtown Hue a firefight broke out between the National Police and troops of the 1^st ARVN Div.  Some kind of local dust up I supposed.  We sat back a ways and watched.  Several hundreds of rounds were fired – and not a single person hit.  Then things calmed down and traffic resumed. 

     This reminded me of an earlier trip in my tour.  I was traveling through a village south of Hue and traffic was heavy.  It was just me and my driver and we were stopped.  Just then a “slicky boy” and a compatriot rushed our jeep and literally ripped my watch off my arm.  He ran down a small street.  It was the watch Mary Ellen had given me as a wedding present and I was pissed.  I got out, charged my M16, and took a good aim at the running kid, about 12 years old or so.  I was contemplating firing when he looked back right down the barrel line and then threw down the watch.  My driver jumped out and charged his weapon.  The locals all were quite amused, to include the National Police officer in the crowd.  We moved our weapons back and forth and the laughter subsided a bit, and I walked over and picked up my watch.  The boy had literally run out of his sandals.  My driver picked them up and threw them in the jeep and we drove off as traffic had subsided.  We did not think much of the people that day.

     In the last few days in-country, I started to get short-timers syndrome.  I just did not want to get hit or killed with less than 30 days remaining.  So it was with some trepidation that I delivered the pay to our firebases.  Since Rifle had a road, I was to use a jeep again.  Driving that road and country where we had fought some skirmishes was kind of rewarding.  The road was quite passable now and there had been no action for some time.  We went alone with just me and my driver.

     We passed the last section of flatland and went through the low-water crossing.  We were aware of the reoccurring rumors of supposed NVA infiltrating in ARVN uniforms.  As we passed the crossing, we saw four ARVN uniformed troops with no gear crouching on the side of the road.  They saw us, stood up, smiled, and waved.  This was a bad sign for several reasons.  First ARVN troops were usually indifferent to US troops at best, and second soldiers were never totally without weapons and gear.  We smiled, waved, and hit the gas.  I reported this when we got to the hill.  No ARVN were supposed to be in the area.  Anyway, the trip back was a bit tense.

     My other duties were with the “problem” guys.  Vietnam took a terrible toll on the young men who served.  I estimated at the time that over 70% of troops had at least tried coke or marijuana with about 25% having a problem kicking it.  The gooks sold it at $2 a cap and things were bad in the rear areas.  The Army would fight this scourge for years.  Those discharged basically had to fend for themselves in the civilian world.  When we returned there was not much help for Vets in general and almost none for addicts.

     Other guys were really not supported from back home much at all.  Several got the standard “Dear Johns” as absence did not make the heart grow fonder.  Typical was my driver in the platoon.  He was a good man and my cohort at the Khe Sanh night mine sweep.  But he was all of 19 and had a 17-year-old wife at home (shot gun wedding before he deployed or face statutory rape charges from his father-in-law).  Anyway, she was running around and filed for divorce.  He was crushed – I had no idea what to do or say.

     The lack of communication back home was so hard to take – not knowing.

The Chaplain Wins the Silver Star

At this point, I got more control of myself and went from being a rifleman to being the LT.  I scurried over to our other positions.  Behind me, I heard a great deal of commotion and spotted the platoon sergeant, SFC R.C. Henry from our other engineer platoon going over the top.  He was following the chaplain who had heard the infantry guys yelling and was going to help if he could.  Apparently, the attack was at my platoon’s front along the road (from the north-east) and from the west at the infantry positions.  Our second platoon was not hit.  That was good because behind them was the one mortar tube the infantry had on the hill. 

It just happened that they were set to fire a random flare round as was SOP during the night when the enemy attacked.  The enemy must have been dumbfounded to be lit up like that!  

     The chaplain was screaming, and the sergeant was running after the chaplain.  Just over the ridge, the chaplain came face to face with a North Vietnamese Army sapper.  According to the sergeant, the chaplain grabbed the gook’s AK rifle and belted him with it.  Then, he shot him several times.  Jumping down into the infantry positions, he confronted more sappers and greased them all, using some profanities at them all the time.  He was protecting “his flock” and in doing so apparently retook the infantry positions the North Vietnam Army (NVA) had overrun. 

     (In the morning the chaplain was awarded the Silver Star on the spot by the Division Commanding General for his action that night.

But because chaplains were non-combatants and unarmed, it was written up supposedly that he led the charge “directing suppressive fire” on enemy positions. He actually did this by shooting them. To make things kosher Sergeant First Class Henry also got the Silver Star for the actual shooting and moving with the chaplain to take back that portion of the hill.)  

     After this, I tried to move over the hill with one of my NCOs to find out more of what was going on.  Behind us near the crest was the spot where a German Sheppard scout dog, assigned to the infantry to sniff out booby traps, and his handler were staying the night.  The poor thing was barking incessantly and lunging at anyone near him, although he was restrained by a leash.   His handler was down in his hole and would not come up.  We shouted to “get up and take care of your dog.”  He said “f*%# you.”  My NCO pointed his M16 down at him and said, “Get up and take care of the dog or you’ll get it right now.”  The handler got up and pulled his dog down into the hole with him. 

     At this point, we were firing at anything that moved and lobbing grenades into the areas we could not get direct fire on. The adrenalin rush was amazing, and I was really wide awake.  The infantry commander tried to get artillery fire on the enemy but again they had attacked from a side of the hill away from our supporting FB and they were too close, but he did get the artillery to fire larger, longer lasting flares.  He then called in cobra gunships (unusual at night) and we all got the word “nails.” This meant that the gun ships were making a run that would include spraying flechette rounds (little nail-like pieces) over the area of the hill from where the NVA was attacking.

We got down, but one of my squad leaders was really into it firing his squad’s M60 from the waist and standing up and apparently did not hear the warning.  The rounds of “nails” hit below us and one ricocheted into his face and took out one of his eyes.

     Several more of my guys had shrapnel wounds.  One specialist was bleeding especially badly from the face and had lost his hearing.  He had a bad case of jungle acne before this.  An RPG had apparently hit the wall of his position behind him, with the majority of the blast going into the hill (these were after all shape charge rounds designed to penetrate a tank and most effects went forward).  The debris had splayed back at him in the face.  I remember thinking they would take care of that acne now.  All in all, my platoon had eight wounded.

     The enemy had apparently pulled back, but the ground was littered with unexploded charges.  They had thrown mostly plastic explosive blocks with point detonators and when they bounced and did not land exactly right — they did not go off.

     The infantry Captain in command called me over and said, “We have to clear the hill, but my guys are engaged.” Yeah, right, I thought — so were mine, although we had not seen any more of the enemy for some time.  He told me to form some of my guys and sweep the hill in a line and forward to the end of the hill where the enemy had retreated.  I did and we “charged” in a very slow walk toward the sappers’ retreat route which led down the hill under a shower of flares.  As we swept forward, we went over the guy I had hit.  His body was riddled with hits now.  We also came across a head and evidence the sappers had pulled some other comrades’ bodies with them – like the headless one body was not to be found.  We did not encounter any new fire.  But I sure puckered up going forward toward their last positions.

     All communications had been handled by the infantry – calling in support.  About this time, I thought I had better report to my company in base camp.  My Commanding Officer would be upset to have missed this.  We used a 292 antenna but got no response from C Co TOC (Tactical Operations Center).  So, we went up on battalion frequency and reported to the 326^th Engr TOC.  My CO was informed of the action by his boss, the battalion commander, — ouch.

     Just then we had to take down all antennas, as we were getting slicks (UH-1s) in with reinforcements, but more importantly the same birds would take our wounded out.  This happened and I never saw those guys again.

     We spent a watchful next few hours until dawn.  As we sat around the adrenalin wore off and a deep fatigue set in.  Earlier, my feet really ached and when I looked down, I had seen my boots were on the wrong feet.  We all were a bit giddy and so glad to be alive. 

     Dawn came. That’s when more reinforcements arrived to “chase” the enemy.  They moved slowly down the hill trying to find their trail, but without a lot of enthusiasm.  We cleaned up the unexploded charges and surveyed the damage.  The enemy had gone right past the equipment and for the bunkers with people.  The object was to kill as many of us as possible apparently.  The intelligence guys later said that they had probably been on the hill several nights before the attack to locate everything.  That spooked us a bit, but now we had an explanation for the trip flares.  We were so lucky the illumination round was set to be fired at the moment of attack – it changed the whole fight. 

     We used our grappling hooks to move the bodies in case they were bobby trapped somehow or had unexploded armed charges.  They were safe.  These guys were wearing only loin cloths with their bodies darkened and heads shaved on the sides.  Some had tourniquets already in place on their arms and legs.  They had only one weapon each — a folding stock AK, an RPG launcher, or pistol, but had apparently carried a lot of explosives.  They were the real thing – NVA sappers.  I remember thinking how motivated they must have been to make such an attack.  Their lifeless bodies did not seem real.  They were already turning dark as the blood congealed in them and swelling a bit as I remember.  

     We laid out their gear for G2 (intelligence) photographing and the CG’s inspection – weapons, medic’s stuff, web-like gear.  In a few hours, most of the gear disappeared into a GI’s pack as souvenirs.

     We used a backhoe to dig a deep hole and we buried eight NVA soldiers in a common grave.  (The G2 guy gave us credit for seven kills since someone else might find the headless body and claim a redundant kill.  Division was very aware of charges in the press of inflated body counts.)   I remember one of my guys dragging the guy I had shot to the hole. 

     It started to hit me that these NVA soldiers would never take another breath, never see their families, never do anything ever again – and we were responsible.  I had not really wanted to take a life – I really only wanted to keep my guys safe and get them home unharmed.  Now that goal was over for sure, and killing these men was part of the price to get us home.  I felt a bit sick inside in a way, but so very happy it was them in the ground.  I felt bad about my guys who were disfigured and wounded, but glad it was not me.  I still to this day feel a bit guilty at times that I walked away, and others did not.  What was the reason?

     We moved to the new positions on the west hill of the saddle that afternoon – and that’s all we did.  My platoon sergeant thanked me for making him stay.  Chaplain Young held a thanksgiving service – and ALL attended.  

     It hit me when one of my young grandsons asked me about the time of Veteran’s Day, “Pop, did you ever shoot or kill anyone?”  A completely innocent question for an old soldier that I answered very poorly with “That’s something I do not wish to talk about.”   The “something” was that while war is terrible thing, it is a defining experience for most men who live through one – yet most all try to put the violence, fear, guilt, and reality of it behind in a small corner of our lives. We usually grow too old to remember or we pass on without the telling.  I wrote this years ago as an attempt to answer his question better at the request of my son, his Dad.

     I was back in-country from my late in tour R & R trip to Hawaii in May 1971.  We had been on FB Rifle for some time with a rotated infantry company in support – no US artillery as this base was being built for ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) troops eventually.  The road to QL1 was open and fairly quiet as the Rome plow had cleared the brush for almost 100 meters on each side and harassing enemy fire had apparently disappeared. 

We were just about to finish the “new” Fire Base portion and perimeter on the west hill of the saddle formation for the ARVN.

     There had been some disquieting events in the previous nights – trip flares going off around our positions at odd hours, but our guys on the guns had seen nothing.  In any case, we had been in place on the east side of the saddle for quite some time and things had gotten routine.  We were unfortunately lax.

     My two platoons of combat engineers had a part of the northern and most of the eastern part of the perimeter on the east end hills of the saddle.  The infantry company had the rest – about two thirds of the hill.  My platoon’s M-60 (machine gun) position was just below my bunker with another foxhole firing position just to my left.  Over the crest of the hill were infantry bunkers and positions.  Our bunkers were temporary structures consisting of a hole dug by dozer or backhoe with a large metal half culvert as a roof.  The roof was covered by at least two layers of sandbags to handle 61 mm mortar rounds that the NVA normally carried.  Each end was open.  My platoon sergeant and I shared one of them and actually had room to put in two cots.  The protective barbed wire was really a joke on this part of the hill as we were planning a move shortly – no more than single strands of concertina razor wire.  We were pretty vulnerable.

     The day of 21 May was a bit tense between my platoon sergeant and me.  We were about to move the next day to the “new” bunkers and fortifications on the west end of the saddle we had constructed.  They were dug in deep and built out of sturdy lumber and covered by many inches of sandbags and soil.  A first class set of positions if I did not say so myself.  That was going to be a big day for the job.  There was a monthly NCO call in the rear the next night and my platoon sergeant had wanted to go in a day early to kick back, but I had told him I needed him.  Besides if he left the next day, he would still make the NCO call and get together. He missed the last logistics bird flight to the rear, but he really was annoyed at me for missing an extra night of clean clothes and a shower – not to mention the drinks.  

     We also had our battalion’s Protestant chaplain visiting us, CPT Jimmie L. Young. He had held a small “service” that day.  He was a very gregarious man and a bit old for a new chaplain.  I think he was some sort of universal Christian denomination. 

     I checked the guard assignments, checked the men and equipment and went to sleep with few words spoken.  It was hot so I removed my shirt and boots and slept in my jungle fatigue pants on my cot.  This night has returned to me in different forms many times after I got home, and once when coming out of a surgical procedure and sedation – Mary Ellen was there to wake me most times.  However, I have not had flashbacks for some time and decided to actually write about it several years ago.

     About midnight all hell broke loose.  We were awakened to loud explosions all around and men yelling.  For some reason, the sky was lit by a flare.  We lay there for a moment and my platoon sergeant said, “I sure do not want to die in here,” and crawled forward.  I was scared and stunned.   I agreed in my mind with him and had that same thought as mortars, explosives, or RPGs (Rocket Propelled Grenades) exploded on the hill.  I pulled on my boots, threw a bandolier of ammo over my shoulder and grabbed my M16 putting on my steel pot (no shirt – quite the “Rambo” look, I guess).

My sergeant dove to the right and into the M60 machine gun position.  I dove to the left and into a two-man firing position as a third man – a bit crowded.

     In the light of the flares, we could see the enemy running all around.  My heart was beating like crazy, and the fear was driving my adrenalin through the roof.  The sergeant was shooting the M60 with the soldier supposedly on guard at that position crouching down in the hole — passing him ammo as fast as the belt could go into the breach.  He was yelling “Get ‘em, Sarge!”  This was strangely ironic and significant because this particular guy had some resentment towards the sergeant the weeks before for riding him hard.  It was the old “hate the ‘lifers’ syndrome” – but not under fire, it turned out.

     I saw a gook dive behind a log about twenty feet from me.  I emptied a clip at him, and his head split open. Later, we would find his body hit by at least 40 rounds.  I was not the only one firing at him, so I really do not know if my rounds actually killed him to answer my grandson’s question – but in my mind I have always felt and, in a way, feared I did.

In February 1973 after my Vietnam tour, I was in command of a company at Fort Bragg, North Carolina – B Company 27^th Engineers (Combat) (Airborne).  It was a dream job and my unit had almost all volunteers – few draftees – as the war in Vietnam drew down.  We had very light weight engineer equipment and it was easily air lifted.

It was close to my birthday and apparently my lady was planning a surprise party. That month a once in a century snowstorm hit much of South Carolina.   

The South Carolina snow removal capability was very limited, and soon the central part of the state became immobilized.  Senator Strom Thurmond was a very influential member of congress and, while the National Guard was called up, he felt he wanted federal help.  So, the 18^th Airborne Corps sent some engineers – me and another Captain with a few troops.

Our mission initially was to rescue motorists stalled in the snow.  We had the Army’s Gamma Goat small truck and it had the ability to “swim” – the area we were tasked to work was in the old “Swamp Fox” world near Marion, SC.  A few Gamma Goats were air-lifted into Florence Airport along with us.  The helo hovered near the runway and we jumped from the tail gate of a Chinook helicopter at the airport into waist deep snow drifts.

We started along the highway and found most vehicles abandoned, with no one inside.  We did come across one with two young women and two young men.  They were dressed like hippies and had the peace necklaces, etc.  We told them we would take them to the National Guard Armory – but the guys wanted no part of a military rescue.  The girls did and got into the back of our Gamma Goat. In a few minutes the guys, shivering, did also. 

We also had some Huey choppers at our disposal, and they were to evacuate medical emergencies if necessary.  We got a call from local law enforcement that evacuation was needed at a farm and the crew responded.  Turns out the farmer was not in distress but always wanted to fly in a helicopter.  Upon landing at hospital pad, the sheriff deputies took charge.

Most folks along the road to Marion were rescued by the local farmers with their tractors – real heroes.

About the second day we were told to move to I-95.  It was at a standstill with abandoned cars causing grid lock.  South Carolina had borrowed one snow blower and plow from North Carolina, and it was working its way down the interstate.  The problems were the abandoned vehicles.  Bragg sent several 5-ton wreckers (large trucks with hoists) and some dozers on flatbeds.  We rendezvoused with them at Florence at sunset and moved south.

All night long we moved south clearing the abandoned vehicles by tossing them aside, allowing the snow removal equipment to get through.

About dawn on the third day, we were approaching the causeway over Lake Marion – the last section to clear.  The North Carolina crew wanted to stop and get some food and take a break.  They were not fond of our c-rations.  So, we detoured off a ramp where there were several motels. 

The folks were standing on balconies waving to us.  I thought this is how our troops liberating France might have been welcomed.  We were a sight as no one had really slept much or shaved for three days.

Right away I was confronted by a motel manager.  It seems the National Guard had dropped some food and supplies the day before but dropped them on another motel’s lot – and THAT manager would not share but wanted to sell it to others.  Turned the problem immediately over to the State Trooper we had with us.

As the day began, we worked the causeway – tossing cars left and right.  Only one that seemed happy was the local tow truck operator.  We did not use the dozers at all except near the end.  There was a tractor trailer that had badly slipped off the road, and its driver was a vet.  We hooked up wreckers and a dozer in tandem and got him back on the road.

There were many irate drivers and especially a few from Canada.  They could not understand how “a little snow” could paralyze the interstate.  Just then the real snow removal “equipment” arrived – the sun – and things really began to clear.

We packed up and convoyed back to Bragg.  My lady had a freezer filled with food for my surprise birthday party that never was.