It was always fun and a great stress reliever for gunship crews to drink excessively. (We didn’t really know about ‘stress’ in Vietnam. The pseudo-intelligentsia hadn’t yet invented the term during our tour of duty. It was our ‘way of life’). In the First Military Region of South Vietnam more commonly known as ‘I’ (eye) Corps there wasn’t much ‘social’ diversion after returning from the daily missions in the AO (area of operations).
Since the Jarheads (US Marines) ‘officially controlled’ the social policy in I Corps no one (allegedly) was allowed any extracurricular activities outside the ‘company area.’ This policy puts a real crimp in a young guy’s style. In the Rattler company area there were two choices: 1) watch a movie at the outdoor beach theater six nights a week (Never on Sunday as someone once said!) or 2) go to the club and drink ‘til you thought you were ‘back in the States.’
The Firebirds chose option number two more often than not. An unwritten code for admission into the Firebird gun platoon was an insatiable thirst for whiskey and shooting guns. All the Firebird crews proved well qualified in both endeavors with the ‘old’ guys mentoring the new guys in the finer nuances of both arts. IF you were in the ‘guns’ another unwritten code was that you took no crap from nobody. A definite given!
Lousy weather closed the pass over Monkey Mountain north of DaNang. After refueling at the Marble Mountain POL (petroleum, oil, & lubricant) fuel point our two-gunship fire team departed northbound for Quang Tri. We were to replace and rotate with another Firebird gun team at the CCN (Command & Control North) mission. After departure we followed Highway 1 north winding our way up through the pass over Monkey Mountain – today however would be a ‘no-go.’ Low hanging misty gray clouds, light rain, and reduced in-flight visibility forced both helicopters to turn back before cresting the mountain pass. No way to Quang Tri today, back to DaNang for another try tomorrow.
The only real negative flying the CCN missions were the two daily flights into either Laos or North Vietnam. Add to that the loss of one’s national identity (we ‘surrendered’ our individual military identification cards and ‘dog tags’ to the good Green Beret operations sergeant), the possibility of being shot down, walking out of hostile country, other than that – CCN was OK. We ate well in the MAG (Marine Air Group) club, had a nice hootch with a stateside refrigerator, and a thick mattress for a bed. Man, this was living!!! BUT first we had to get there, but not today.
After landing back at Marble Mountain and securing the aircraft we all caught a ride to the Special Forces (Green Beret) ‘C’ Team headquarters and were given rooms for the night’s stay. After chow and in compliance with the Firebird credo we headed over to the ‘O’ (Officers) club for an evening of Firebird frolic and fun. Since we were away from our home base at Chu Lai the officers invited the enlisted crewmen as their guests that evening in the Green Beret ‘O’ club. Everyone was ‘up’ for a good time and we never suspected the Green Beret officers wouldn’t feel the same way. After several hours in the club and ‘rounds’ of toasting and chugging, our behavior was a bit erratic and somewhat unseemly to the fine officers wearing the French style green beanies. Quietly we were asked to leave which we did with the utmost Firebird discretion.
Still thirsty, we somehow stumbled down the hill stairs to the infamous Green Beret’s ‘Mike Force’ club. Court was reconvened, the Firebirds were sitting in judgement, and reigning supreme! With everyone sitting at one table, generous rounds of beer and whiskey were ordered and consumed. Bad weather, no flying tonight, nothing to worry about. Several young Green Beret officers were encouraged and welcomed to join in our fun. More beer and whiskey, cigarettes, cigars, this would be a top-drawer night!!! Now the contests must begin. The question: ‘Who is best?’ the Firebirds or the Green Berets? ‘WE ARE and we can prove it,’ shouted the Firebirds. A huge square-cornered glass ashtray lay on our table collecting the nights refuse of ashes, butts, and trash. In my euphoria emerged a dastardly and diabolical deed that would soon separate the men from the boys.
Now the ‘Mike Force’ grunts think they are the baddest of the bad. Snake eaters; bug crunchers; tough guys living off the land for days on end with nothing but a big knife. But tonight, would be different – the Firebirds would emasculate the baddest of the bad Mike Force.
Into the overflowing trashtray the evening’s remnants are poured. Beer, whiskey, and whatever else was left lying from the bottoms of stale drinks were poured into the mess. In the murky liquid floated tobacco bits, cigarette wrappers, smoked-down cigar butts, and dark dissolved blackish-gray ashes. What a horribly putrid mixture!
Now the test begins between Firebirds and Green Berets clustered around the table. Everyone is trying to ‘one up’ the other guy. I lift the trashtray, holding the swirling floating flotsam to my mouth and gulp this horrid mixture. Cheers and shouts of group encouragement erupt from the ‘Birds and the Berets.’
The ‘trashtray’ is passed to the next guy, and then the next guy and on and on around the table, certain that everyone drinks the mandatory mouthful. All the while cheering, shouting, and screaming. Encouragement continues as each one gulps his portion of the awfulest stuff anyone can imagine. When the trashtray has completed its circuit and is replaced on the table another round of cheering and shouting erupts from our group.
Firebirds and Green Berets alike have shared in the brotherhood and ritual of liquefied communion. For a brief moment we are one and equals. But suddenly and unexpectedly a young ‘Beret lieutenant stands, tilts his head, and regurgitates his repulsive repast onto the Mike Force Club floor. Loud jeering and catcalls immediately emanate from the Firebirds.
References to the lieutenant’s family history and lineage are shouted along with doubts regarding his masculinity and gender. His ability to function and perform as an officer in the United States Army are brought into question and investigation by his drinking partners.
The commotion is uproarious – everyone at the table is either yelling or laughing to the point of incoherence. As the embarrassed junior officer reclaims his seat, several Firebirds stand and perform a high stepping foot dance in the lieutenant’s leavings. ‘That’s it! That’s it! THAT’S IT! ‘comes a booming voice from across the bar room. All faces turn toward a tall lean black man striding quickly towards our group. ‘All Firebirds – out of the club, now! Shouts the man dressed in turtleneck and sport jacket. Turtleneck and sport jacket? Where are we? In a war zone or back in the states? And WHO is this guy shouting angrily at the Firebirds to leave the club? It’s the infamous ‘Snakebite!’ with the rank of major and the operations officer for the DaNang Special Forces ‘C’ Team. Snakebite! Continues shouting ‘All Firebirds out of the club now!’
Our welcome outlived, we leave the club and slowly stumble back up the narrow hillside stairway to our vehicle. Several of us pile into the backend of the three-quarter ton military truck for the return to the barracks. As we drive through the security checkpoint Jerry Mike unholsters his .38 caliber pistol and fires several rounds into the air. Hurriedly we leave the Mike Force area leaving no doubt where Firebirds were tonight!
But! – this is not the end of the story! Later that evening Mr. Charles decides to light up the main ammo dump at DaNang. Mr. Charles scores direct hit after direct hit on the ammo dump. The ammo dump is one massive firepot with explosion following explosion ripping the night darkness. I awaken in our transient quarters and watch the orange explosions through zigzagging red lines of tracer bullets. The red tracers crisscross in front of the window while I watched, to tired to care.
The next morning the ammo dump was still exploding sending gray-black clouds billowing high into the sky. I lift-off from the Marble Mountain airfield to fly northward up Highway One and finally through the mountain pass. Goodbye to the Mike Force club and the still exploding ammo dump and hello to one huge hangover.
Nota Bene – for anyone who ever claims to have been a ‘Green Beret’ the qualifying question is: WHO was Snakebite? Anyone who was ever in the Green Berets knows about Snakebite – if you don’t know, you were never in the Special Forces.
(c) Copyright – 2023 Vic Bandini