John Meyer - On The Ground: The Secret War in Vietnam

Saturday, 2004 in Vista, California, I watched the wind-blown trees through the sliding glass doors on a gray rainy day in May and could hear Mrs. Atkinson, the piano teacher, instruct my youngest daughter, Alaina. My vision moved farther east where I watched a series of high trees buffeted by wind and rain. My dear Alaina played a flawless version of Old MacDonald had a Farm, while my vision riveted on that cluster of very high trees.

Suddenly images flickered in slow motion and voices echoed from the past: If I dont get to those trees, I shall die. As the One-Zero, I shall fail the men on my team.

Call KingbeeBeaucoup VCCall Kingbees now. If the NVA closes in, I want the high ground.

I headed the team directly north, up a small hill that dominated the landscape. At the top, I saw gray clouds bringing rain.

The NVA gave up any pretense of maintaining stealth and headed straight for us. Green tracers cracked overhead. We fired and reloaded. Between the enemy, the jungle and dark, late-afternoon sky, I wondered if we had enough daylight to exfiltrate the target. I popped yellow smoke and called Covey, flying above the team.

See your smoke, but no LZ, came over my radio.

We made for a stand of trees about 100 meters away, although the thick vegetation made it agonizingly slow. My throat felt parched and tight from moving so quickly. I knew every second that ticked past decreased the odds of us getting out.

Against the dim skyline I made out the 150-foot-high tree tops bending and swaying in the wind, whipped in a mad fury by both the storm and the approaching helicopters. Like the rest of the team, I emptied and reloaded my CAR-15 as fast as I could. I heard the UH-1 moving toward the hole and gunfire from the west. Hiep and I spun and returned fire. I found a line of fire for an M-79 round. I looked up through the tall swaying trees. The helicopter looked like a miniature

Daddy, did you like the duet Mrs. Atkinson and I played?

I blinked and saw my daughter in front of me. Uh, beautiful. I cant wait to get home to tell your mother and grandmother how well you played.

I gathered myself and gave my smiling, curly-haired daughter an extra long hug.

While Alaina and Mrs. Atkinson finished the lesson I sat in the chair stunned by the vividness of the flashback. I hadnt thought about that particular jungle extraction for 35 years and yet it returned with a sudden, haunting swiftness. I even felt the sweat on my back and thirst in my throat.

I shook myself free. Free from the memory of another day in Americas secret war.

***

We dont always know when or why, but these memories come back to us, reminders of what we did and who we were in another time. Our youth, our dreams, and our lives lay before us.

Hes at the twenty, the fifteen, ten, five, TOUCHDOWN! Staff Sergeant Pat Watkins heard the crowd as he caught yet another perfect pass. Only its not the Rose Bowl, but the Naval Support Activity Center in Chu Lai in 1967.

He handed the football back to the 10 th round draft pick. Someday Ill tell my children and grandchildren I tossed around the football with a Heisman Trophy winner.

The real heroes in Vietnam are Special Forces troops such as you and your friends, and I look forward to someday telling my children I threw passes to a U.S. Army Special Forces soldier, Roger Staubach replied.

Its the small events that define us. War is too big and too fickle to command all of our attention. Its the letter from home, the words to a song, or the graciousness of a future football legend that add texture and meaning to our lives.

The following stories, while not always mine or John Peters, describe our time in Vietnam and the extreme circumstances of our missions. Sometimes funny, sometimes tragic, these stories are ours and we are proud to be included in the ranks of these brave men.

These then, are the stories of MACV-SOG.