The original Delta Club was only operational for about 45 days, then the Inspector General shut us down at the request of the 5^th Group Commander. It seems that one of our extra-curricular recreational activities attracted the attention of a local reporter, Master Sergeant Donald Duncan, who found our sense of fun both newsworthy and repulsing. His news article concerned the antics of two members of Delta, whom I shall merely refer to as "Hewey" and "Dewey." It seems that these two yahoos decided to have a contest to settle an argument between themselves as to which one was the best "pussy eater."

To the best of my recollection, one of those two, I honestly dont recall which, sold tickets to any and all interested spectators. Apparently the reporter bought a ticket. According to a Delta member who supposedly witnessed the contest, Dewey won! Dewey reportedly didnt come up for air for an hour. That parts hearsay because I was not present for that contest. Honest!

As I recall, Duncan had been Deweys recon patrol leader. Duncan quit recon and Delta after his team blundered into a couple of unarmed villagers while on his last patrol. The team took them prisoners because they were afraid that they were either VC or would tell the VC about seeing them. Duncan reported it by radio. According to Duncan, Deltas Headquarters ordered him to kill the villagers and continue the mission and he refused. Duncan wanted exfiltration along with the villagers. I am almost positive that this happened while Major Strange was still commanding Delta.

Duncan always carried a pair of "utility pole climbers" with him so if he found a suitable tree, he could have a good observation post and would also be better able to determine where the hell he was at. Duncan impressed me as being a very good soldier. He was a very young Master Sergeant. Duncan, like many others, just did not have a stomach for that stupid war.

[The last that I heard about Duncan, he quit the army and took a job as a reporter with some "liberal" west coast magazine that specialized in bad-mouthing the US and our involvement in that stupid war. He later wrote a book, I believe it was called, The New Legions and I think he also had articles published in Life Magazine.  Many of the SF guys, especially those in Delta, despised Duncan for what he put in his book.  I have since read it and I didn't see anything in it that isn't reasonably accurate. ]

In the short period of time that the original Delta Club existed, it made enough profit to pay the civilian labor and buy enough material to build the most beautiful club in Vietnam. They built it on our new campsite. Our club didnt cost the taxpayers a red cent. Most club managers during that time frame skimmed money off the top and many left their club in debt. Some never paid a single beer company the entire time they were manager. Our camp was classified Secret and no reporters were allowed inside. The Delta Club became famous throughout SF and units that Delta worked with. It was the place to go for fun and good drinks and food at reasonable prices, unless you were a non-SF officer or a reporter. Really, it became a "Class Act."

Because each SF team did not have a mess sergeant and cooks assigned, we received extra pay so we could make arrangements to feed ourselves. We were not issued food through normal channels, so we made-do. In Delta, we supplemented our rations by trading as did many SF teams.

Delta issued each lurp member a .25 caliber pistol for an emergency hideout gun. The guys referred to these pistols as "cat house pistols." According to the way I understood the system, everything Delta was issued was dropped from the records and the Delta Supply Sergeant, Sergeant First Class Marvin Dunbar, was only accountable to the Delta Commander for it after he received it from Group. Every now and then after an operation, some of the hideout guns were turned into our Supply Sergeant and new ones issued. The old ones were listed as "lost during combat operations." They were really traded to some air force contacts for food, usually steak or some other choice cuts of meat. When we ran low on pistols, we traded anything of value.  [As I recall, Kelly Ellison and Dom Campos were our Assistant Supply Sergeants.]

All of my trading material was stored under my bunk because it wouldnt fit in my wall locker. At one time I had stored under my bunk: twenty US Air Force survival rifles [these rifles had a .22 Hornet barrel mounted over a .410 gauge shotgun barrel]; and one never-used 1903 Springfield rifle. My trading material was piled so high I had to rearrange it so the bolt handles of the rifles wouldnt poke me in the back while I was trying to sleep.

If SF had nothing of trading value, many times they created it. According to rumors at the time, some SF profiteers established a factory that produced "genuine" VC and NVA flags complete with bullet holes and blood [chicken blood] which were in great demand by our USAF buddies.

There have been several TV shows, movies and books produced about special forces over the years, but mostly they emphasized and exaggerated their training and combat skills, none of them even hint at their sense of humor. SFs sense of humor was inspirational, creative, and sometimes even awe-inspiring. SF humor deserves a place in history just for itself. Practical jokes were considered a sacred mission and cooperation and assistance by all SF was expected and usually provided. Practical jokes were targeted at SF officers and SF enlisted alike. Usually, if a fellow SFer pulled a really good prank on you, he liked you. Good pranks take a lot of effort.

But sometimes, very few times, it was done for revenge and usually the target of this type of prank was a non-SF type, a goof-off or an officer. If an SF screwed up, his fellow SF buddies took great delight in pestering the hell out of him about it. He usually took more punishment from his buddies than the powers-to-be gave him. The common saying was, "Just hang in there until the next guy fucks up!" It usually didnt take very long for the next guy to "step on his dick" and he would immediately become a fresh source of entertainment. In my opinion, their sense of humor released a lot of pent-up stress and probably helped keep SF emotional casualties to a bare minimum.

The promotion system was based on points and you got points for certain things. A medal for valor was worth so many points, a combat infantrymans badge was worth so many points, etc. and for an officer being in a command position in combat was worth a bushel basket-full of points.

Some brilliant general/politician had just conceived the idea of the "up or out" system for the officers. The army officers corps liked it so much they made the enlisted men play the Up or Out Game also. "Up or Out" meant that whether officer or enlisted, you had to achieve a certain rank by a certain number of years of service or you could not re-enlist.  The officers also  had to have a certain amount of experience in certain types of duty assignments and SF duty, in any assignment, was not high on that list.

This was another stupid decision. There were many excellent platoon sergeants who were well qualified for that job and loved it, but they did not want to be a first soldier or sergeant major. They loved field duty and working with the troops and in our new army, first soldiers and sergeant majors are only "figure heads" and they seldom spend any time in the field or with the troops. Especially command sergeant majors, that rank has become more of a political position than anything else. In SF, some sergeant majors are assigned as low as the B Team level and on special missions they can be assigned to an A Team. This program was the armys way of justifying getting rid of "unique" officers. Many times, "unique" officers were the ones who got the job done in wartime and inspired trust and loyalty in their men, but who just didnt fit in on the parade field or in garrison duty.

After Delta had moved to their new camp, Captain Thompson called me on the field phone one day and ordered me to come to his office at once. The tone of his voice made it obvious that he was not a happy camper. Thompsons "office" was in a squad tent that was erected on wooden pallets. It was full of field desks and filing cabinets and served as office and workspace for both operations and intelligence sections.

As soon as I arrived at his desk, Thompson commenced chewing me out I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. It had something to do with what he had told Buster Keaton to do or had expected him to do and, as usual, he was ranting and raving, virtually frothing at the mouth, screaming at top of his lungs and pounding the little field desk with his big fist. This was his normal way of dealing with a problem. Besides us, the only ones present in the tent were Master Sergeants Felix Z. Padilla and Clyde Watkins.

After a couple of minutes of this tirade, I interrupted Thompson and reminded him, "Captain, Im no longer the supervisor of the Communications Section and I havent been for quite some time now. Sergeant Keaton is the supervisor and I have no earthly idea what you are talking about." I added, "You should be talking to Buster. He might have some idea what is going on." "Hell No!" he screamed. "Im telling you and you can relay it to Sergeant Keaton," he added.

Any military leader will tell you that this is not the way the chain of command works. Ass-chewings always goes from the top down the chain of command, not down and back up. Needless to say, from that point on my mind snapped shut and I didnt hear a damn word that idiot said.

Well about that time, the field phone on Thompsons desk rang, but he ignored it and continued to rant and rave. So, I finally picked up his phone handset and answered it for him, "Captain Thompsons desk. Please hold, hes busy chewing my ass at the present time." Then I put the handset down on his desk. Felix and Clyde nearly choked trying to hold back their laughter.

Thompson just sat there and stared at me for a full ten seconds and then he jumped to his feet and really began to spit slobber all over the damn place. This tirade lasted for about another ten minutes. He finally ran out of words and dismissed me. Felix and Clyde thought it was as funny as hell and told every enlisted man they met about the incident. That was the last time that idiot ever gave me a hard time.

While I was on this tour of duty I enrolled in and completed all of the correspondence courses that I could take from the JFKSWC [John F. Kennedy Special Warfare School]. Also, I completed a civilian Insurance Investigator correspondence course. Thompson had shown me that asshole officers can be found anywhere in the army, even SF, and I was seriously considering stacking arms and leaving the army.

[The only time that I saw that sorry ass Thompson after I left Delta was at Fort Bragg and he was a Lieutenant Colonel and still in Special Forces. When I saw him coming, I turned the other way to avoid having to salute that sorry bastard. It was hard to believe that the army had made that son of a bitch a lieutenant colonel. That shouldnt have surprised me so much because at that particular time, the Green Machine (US Army) seemed to be rolling aimlessly along as if it were controlled by a raving lunatic.]

The new Delta Commander was a Grade-A Dumbass, Major Charles "Charging Charlie" Beckwith. During Charlies introduction speech, he stated, "Theres only two kinds of soldiers, dip-shits and piss-cutters. I only want piss-cutters in this outfit. If you dont like that, get the hell out! If you stick with me, Ill send you home with a chest-full of medals or Ill send your mother a footlocker-full of them." And that is a direct quote.

Norbert Weber was an experienced member of our lurps. Norbert was from Germany where he had been forced into Hitlers Youth Corps during World War II. Norbert still spoke with a heavy German accent. Once, I asked Norbert about World War II Germany, he said, "Val, you did as you were told or some damn Nazi blew your fucking head off!" Norbert was sitting in front of me during that speech. Well, Norbert turned around to me and said, "Val, I tink I now be a deep sheet!" [Norbert survived to retire and the last that I heard he lived near Tallahassee, Florida and had retired again from the state government.]

About a month later, Delta was assigned the job of raiding a North Vietnamese Army Division Headquarters, killing everyone we could find, and capturing all of their electronic equipment. The main job was to capture that main bunker and all of their equipment and records. This Headquarters was supposed to be in a large bunker complex on a knoll in the middle of a large valley. The US Air Force was supposed to provide fighter cover for our raid and they were also supposed to bomb the target to soften it up before we attacked. This raid was all based on photo interpretations of aerial photos. While rehearsing our plan for landing and clearing the landing zone, Charging Charlie said, "Men, dont just put your heads down, your asses up, and charge. Stop and think before you act." That is another direct quote.  That one I remember.

For some unknown reason, Charging Charlie seemed to love me, so naturally I was picked to be "his" damn radio operator on this operation. That meant that I had to go in on the first wave of choppers with him. La-De-Damn-Da! While flying enroute to the target I became extremely anxious, regular soldiers might use the term "scared." Until we came within sight of the target, I couldnt figure out why I was so concerned. When I saw there were no fresh bomb craters anywhere near our objective the answer came to me in a flash. I began to really think about this mission. How can they bomb the command bunkers and still expect the electronic equipment to remain intact so we could capture it for our intelligence people to analyze? They cant! They had lied! Aw shit, theyre not going to bomb anywhere near those damn bunkers. If they do, theyll destroy the electronic equipment. When that thought hit me, my ass puckered up so tight, I thought that I would suck my canvass seat right up inside of me because we were all landing within fifty meters of where the main bunker was supposed to be located.

The LZ was so small the only way we could put our force down on it was three choppers at a time so they approached and landed in a trail of "V"s. There were three choppers to a "V" with Charging Charlie, his trusty radioman, meaning me, and some lurp guys going in on the first three choppers followed by our RVN Ranger Battalion and the rest of the lurp guys. When I hit the ground, I immediately got tangled up in the elephant grass and fell flat on my kisser. The next wave of choppers immediately roared in with machine guns blazing and one of them damn near sat down on top of me and the door gunner was spraying bullets all over the damn place. As soon as they lifted off, I jumped up and raced past everyone. I was the first man to reach our assembly area. Those damn choppers werent getting a second chance to land on my ass. The Vietnamese ranger battalion with us was the one that served as Deltas "Hatchet Force."

Each wave of choppers landed in an open field of elephant grass and none of them were more than 100 yards from the knoll where the main bunker complex was supposedly located.  As soon as we had regrouped at a pre-designated point at the foot of the knoll, we headed uphill. Somehow, I ended up being point-man with everyone else in single file behind me and so far as I knew, I was carrying the only damn radio in the assault force. Those lurp guys were smarter than I had thought. That knoll was almost straight up and the underbrush was as thick as pea soup and it consisted mostly of vines that had very long and very sharp thorns. We respectfully referred to these vines as "wait-a-minute vines."

Breaking trail under such circumstances is not easy, especially when you are also toting a damn field radio with antenna so I was slowed up considerably. Major Beckwith was about six men back and finally about half way up the hill he yelled, "Move it out up there, move it out!" and I replied over my shoulder, "My ass is ahead of your ass." To which I heard the response, "Charge men! Charge!" I yelled, "What the hell happened to that stop and think shit?" Charlie responsed,   "Shut up and Charge damn it! Charge!." Some of the lurp men finally passed me up, snickering as they went by, and took the point.  I was too busy untangling that damn radio from about a dozen wait-a-minute vines.  We eventually reached the summit.

There were no enemy troops anywhere near that knoll. The huge "bunkers" proved to be very old bomb craters. The "eight foot high stone wall" or "aqueduct" proved to be a two foot high stone farm fence just like back home in the Smoky Mountains. The "radar antenna" was a reed basket hung upside down on a stake in the field.

There were absolutely no bad guys there and that made me very happy. If there had actually been a division headquarters on that knoll there would have been hundreds, maybe thousands, of troops in the immediate vicinity for security and we would have all been slaughtered and as a radio operator on point, I would probably have got it first. But I was still pissed at the stupid photo interpreters for scaring the hell out of me like that. That is one example of why Beckwith was called Charging Charlie. Knowing Charging Charlie, Im sure there are plenty of other reasons.

Deltas tactics changed when we changed commanders. Before Charging Charlie arrived, the RTs concentrated on traveling light so they could travel as quiet as possible and had a better chance of out-running the enemy and escaping, if they were spotted. After Charging Charlie arrived, the RTs concentrated on being heavily armed because they knew that they might not be exfiltrated when they got into trouble. Before Charging Charlie came to Delta, I wanted to serve on an RTafter Charlie came to Delta, I was damn glad that I was not on one of our RTs and I made a mental note to never again volunteer for lurp duty. And thats one promise that I kept.

[My experience with Delta taught me a very valuable lesson about special operations and lurps in particular. In order to efficiently perform such duty and survive, it must have de-centralized control. If it is a SF unit, it must be a 100% SF operation, all the US ground troops had to be SF, SF planning, and SF control. Control had to be de-centralized down to the lowest level possible. No indigenous personnel could be informed of any mission details until after the operation had already begun.]

A couple of months after Charging Charlie came to Delta, communication Sergeants Bill Pool and Ronald L. "Robbie" Robertson were picked to tote radios on a mission to re-enforce  the SF camp at Plei Mei which was under seige at the time.  Robbie had joined us in April.  Deltas pilots had to fly the mission. An American unit was supposed to have provided all chopper support for that job, but their pilots were not allowed off the ground because of the fog. I'm not certain, but I think those choppers were assigned to the 1st Air Cavalry.  Delta had to wait for their own choppers to get there from Nha Trang. Delta pilots flew up the road just above the trees because the fog was so thick, but they made it.

They landed a short distance from the camp and the troops hiked from there. Our troops were ambushed enroute. Thats to be expected in a situation like that.

Bill and Robbie were pinned down in a ditch along the road. Bill raised up to move up the hill and was shot high in the upper shoulder and the bullet lodged against his shoulder blade. The impact of the bullet rolled Bill head-over-heels backwards. When Bill was shot, his M-16 was set on full automatic. The safety on the M-16 Assault Rifle has three positions, Safe, Fire & Automatic Fire which the enlisted men quickly nick-named "Slow, Fast and Awful Fast." When he shot, Bill's automatic reflex was to squeeze the trigger and he held it down as he flipped backwards. In the process, Bill shot Robbie in the tip of his big toe. It just barely nipped the tip of it, but Robbie dropped his rifle, leaped up right in the middle of that damn fire-fight with bullets flying all around, grabbed his foot with both hands, and hopped around in the middle of the road cursing Bill for all he was worth. Bill was lying flat on his back in the ditch watching all of this and really felt bad so he apologized to Robbie. Robbie finally took cover before he was shot for real. [For a long time I thought that Bill had served only one hitch, but I just discovered that he went to OCS and returned to Vietnam as a 2d Looie.  Bill lived to retire.  I last saw Robbie in 1974 at the Presidio of Monterey where he was studying a dialect of Chinese at the Department of Defense Language Institute. In November 1997, I talked to Robbie via email and discovered that not only did he also live to retire, but he now lives in Thailand.]

While our ARVN Rangers were fighting the NVA in this area, an ARVN officer  was shot through the forehead by a .50 caliber . A .50 caliber bullet does a lot of damage to anything it hits, especially a skull. When they took the nest, they found the dead VC gunner handcuffed to the machine gun. Apparently, he was not a hard-core volunteer. Our politicians were just playing at war, but Sir Charles wasntSir Charles was playing for keeps.

When my tour was about up, Charging Charlie sent for me. When I reported to him, he asked, "Sergeant Valentine, why dont you extend and stay with me." I told him, "No thank you sir. Youre going to get this outfit wiped out!" He just laughed and I headed out the door for Fort Bragg and A Company, 3d Group. That was in December 1965.

[One of the last things that Major Strange had said to Charging Charlie before he turned Delta over to him was, "Stay out of the An Lao Valley! They have sophisticated warning systems and tracking dogs." On 28 January 1966, Charging Charlie inserted Deltas RTs into the An Lao Valley. The RTs were really shot up bad, very bad. The RTs suffered so many injuries, Delta was temporarily out of business. Charging Charlie was also wounded while flying overhead in his command chopper, but he survived.

SF also began taking soldiers who had volunteered for the draft and were in the army for only two years. Many of these guys barely completed training before they were discharged and they were primarily used to pull shit-details at Fort Bragg. Very few ever served on a Go Team (mission team).  I served on missions with a couple of the exceptions and I thought both were good men and good soldiers.  It wasn't their fault, it was the "system's" fault.]

< Prev Page

Don Valentine's Website