Into Cambodia - Keith Nolan [11]
Lieutenant Colonel Brookshire's right-hand man during the Tay Ninh campaign was Major Franks, who was not a cigar chewer like Brookshire, but more the unflappable gentleman he had been while a professor of English at West Point. He was also incredibly brave: The NVA grenade that caused the amputation of most of one foot did not impede his eventual rise to command of the Blackhorse Regiment and then the Old Ironsides Division. Franks too was meant for general's stars.
Brookshire's and Franks's troop commanders were mostly professionals on their second tours. Even those new to the game could lean on their multitoured first sergeants who, in accordance with regimental policy, spent half their time out of base camp and in the bush. The platoon leaders, young, inexperienced, and ever changing, could rely on their platoon sergeants, who were often seasoned pros. By this stage in the war, most platoon sergeants and squad leaders in other units were draftees who had earned instant shake'n'bake stripes at the Fort Benning NCO Academy, but probably for reasons of reputation, the Blackhorse had attracted a healthy number of young platoon sergeants and track commanders who had survived previous combat tours as privates and spec fours before deciding to go regular.
The troops themselves arrived no better or worse than the young draftees filling other units in Vietnam, but in the Blackhorse environment, each was molded without knowing it. He may have hated the Army and occasionally his platoon sergeant, he definitely hated the smothering heat and dust and mosquitoes that rose at night by the handful, but he also felt he was part of a team. And it was a good team. The Blackhorse did not stand down every three weeks like most line units but stayed in the bush for months at a stretch so the men could maintain their mental edge. Such a policy did nothing for Starry's popularity among the grunts, but in the long run it kept them alive. Likewise, troopers were not prone to look favorably on Brookshire, who kept them baking in helmets and flak jackets and who was an unyielding task master when it came to digging in. But that too kept them alive. Morale was kept up with a nightly delivery by helicopter of hot food in mermite containers and cans of soda packed in ice. Going for months without a real haircut or a real shower, the grunts bitched and complained and called their troop commanders“pricks”behind their backs, and speculated that the commanders had bets going in the Officers' Club about who could rack up the highest body count, but they also endured and followed orders. A lieutenant named Baerman, who picked up two Purple Hearts with C Troop, 11th ACR, was moved to comment:
At twenty-two, except for my platoon sergeant, I was the oldest in the platoon. The average age of the trooper was eighteen years, five months. Almost half were black or Hispanic and only one other soldier, a shake'n-'bake buck sergeant, had any college. But they were great folks, hardworking and brave, and really looked out for one another. Because we spent our time almost exclusively in the jungle, we had no problems with drugs or discipline. Since the threat was constant, and we usually saw only main force NVA, everyone pretty much kept on their toes and made sure the other folks did too. From a leadership standpoint, there just wasn't a problem. There is nothing like being in a good unit with good people.
The 11th Cav was one of the finest units in Vietnam, but for those on the bottom all was not a textbook affair, to which one Sp4c. Michael S. Thompson of G Troop could testify. He was a skinny kid, a loner, who always felt he was on the outside looking in on this adventure, which started with his arrival at Cam Ranh Bay.
The new troops were herded onto olive-drab buses with wire mesh over the windows and driven to the Replacement Depot, where they were issued the new shiny green jungle fatigues that marked them as FNGs–fucking new guys–and where malaria pills were passed out. They stood in line, and sweated,