199th Light Infantry Brigade Redcatcher MP

Redcatcher

M.P.

199th Light Infantry Brigade

by

Sp/5 Mickey M. Bright

152nd M.P. Platoon

Cover Art

by Mickey Bright's family 2013

All Rights Reserved

Sp/4 Mickey Bright on Bunker duty

Circa 1968

Published by Ginger McConnauhey for Mickey Bright at Smashwords

Copyright © 2013 Mickey Bright

All Rights Reserved

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This story is memories of the author about his experiences in Vietnam. The characters may or may not be real, but their service to their country and special bond with the author was never forgotten by him. He considered all the men he served with in the Vietnam War as brothers in arms and friends.

Booksbyfay Publisher

Editor Fay Risner

The following is a letter from Mickey Bright, known as Mike, to his cousin , Fay Risner, and her family postmarked May 8, 1968 from Vietnam.

Hi Fay, Harold and family,

I got your letter today, you sure know who cares about you by the letters you get. I appreciate you and Harold writing. I got a letter from your mom last week. I'm glad you all are getting along okay.

Tell ole Harold he better not work too hard or I'll turn him over my knee. Ha! Ha! Harold, I'm going to come down and go fishing with you when I get back in the states, and that's a promise.

It's hell over here. You are up from 16 to 18 hours. You see your buddies get shot and you have to kill. I hope I make it back.

Your mom probably told you all I am a machine gunner on a M.P. gun jeep.

I'll tell you it's not too funny to get shot at. I'm located about 20 miles from Saigon. But you know how I am, happy-go-lucky. I never worry about a thing.

Well, I have to go. Oh, you ought to see the Vietnamese women over here. They are out of sight. Write as much as you can. You all be good.

Love,

Mike

Forward

Young men sent to the Vietnam war didn't have a clue what they were getting into when they left the safety of home. Mick sat with men his age in the back of a truck, waiting to be delivered to his base. He wrote, Each man had puffy cheeks. A hint of our still developing maturity.

For many, the Vietnam War was pure hell! Men thought they were doing their duty as soldiers for their country when they left for war and had no idea (because most had never served in a war) what they were up against. Dense jungles, snakes, spiders, leeches, ticks, malaria carrying mosquitoes, booby traps, heat, humidity, torrents of rain, foot rot, and scabs on their body from cuts that got infected from moisture and dirt.

Mick considered writing his story cathartic. Putting on paper what he saw and did in Vietnam was easier than telling the tales. He put his story in four spiral notebooks and gave them to his mother for safe keeping. Until recent years, Mick, an unknown one time author, found it hard to get his story published. Now in the age of Independent authors Mick's book is published, but sadly Mick passed away before that happened.

When the fond memories of Mick passed between his sisters and me, there came recall of the story he wrote. I asked to see it when it surfaced among his effects. Now I hope our Mick (Mike) is smiling down on his family for making his book possible.

Mike's story starts with his landing in Vietnam in the middle of the Tet Offensive which began January 31, 1968. Knowing the element of surprise would be on the North Vietnamese side, VC infiltrated South Vietnam, getting in position to conduct a large military operation during the cease fire. The attack took our military by surprise, but after months of battles, the communists were driven back across the border. Finally, our military considered this the beginning of the end of the war for North Vietnam.

This war was the first one to be televised. When news reporter Walter Cronkite traveled to Vietnam to see what was happening, he brought back a report that sealed the fate of South Vietnam. On his newscast, he said, The only rational way out will be negotiate not as victors, but as honorable people who did the best they could.

That's all it took for protests to erupt across the United States, many of them violent, demanding to get our service men out of Vietnam. President Nixon ordered a withdrawal of troops. Over time when South Vietnam's army was left to defend the country, the North Vietnamese army swarmed back in and took over.

In Loving Memory About The Author

Sp/5 Mickey M. Bright

1/14/1949 - 4/10/2013

Mickey Bright put his heart and soul into his book about his three tours in the Vietnam War. He brings to life the men he served with and treasured as friends as well as the Vietnamese people he grew to know and respect. He describes everything he saw and felt about the war in vivid detail. That includes the horrors of war as well as the men's feverish efforts to block their worries and fears with drugs and booze in their off duty hours. In the Missouri Ozarks, Mickey was a happy go lucky, daring boy who didn't show fear. He grew into a man in Vietnam that kept his cool under fire. His family and extended family are proud of him for his service to his country and knew the man we called Mike for the soft hearted soul he was. He will be missed.

Tour One

Chapter 1

The plane tilted its wings, circling in a wide landing pattern. Binh Hoa Air Base was its destination below. The hundred and eighty plus passengers filled the port windows, peeking into the night and yearning for a glimpse of their new home. Night fires speckled the unseen ground beneath.

Wonder what started those fires? The soldier next to me asked.

They're from rocket blasts, someone voiced from behind us.

This disturbed my gullible traveling acquaintance considerably. No they're not! He flared. They're probably campfires!

Laughter met his exposed nervousness. Throughout the trip, Beshir's gregarious personality, accompanied with a Jimmy Durante nose, had attracted a favorable audience. They are campfires, aren't they, Mick?

I took another look out the window. Looks like the whole airfield is under attack.

He quickly pulled me away and plastered his face on the glass. He turned back to me. No it isn't! He bellowed, wanting a supportive reply.

A guy across the aisle alleviated his growing concern. Calm down, Beshir. None of us know what's happening down there.

He's right, man. I was just kidding you, I confessed.

I knew that, Bright, Beshir blustered, trying to believe it himself. I smiled as he leaned back against the seat, preparing for the landing.

The screech of rubber from the plane wheels reported our arrival. Moments after the abrupt stop, a young army captain boarded. He gave us instructions to load onto awaiting buses parked outside. I stepped out, barely aware of the descending steps when the new environment bombarded my senses. A strange foul odor agitated my nose while a light smog filling the thin air, impaired my breathing. The drastic change in temperature from an air conditioned cabin to the tropical climate was devastating.

I followed the exodus of men, clad in new issue jungle fatigues, across the asphalt to the line of green buses. As I neared, I perceived two jeeps. One was at each end of the convoy. Menacing M-60 machine guns rested on four feet poles protruding from the center of the vehicles. I boarded the third bus. The windows had been replaced with coarse wire mesh.

Without ceremony, the driver entered and took his place behind the steering wheel. Revving the engine and grinding the gears, he forced the old bus into motion.

The first sign of outside life came as we exited the base. An air base policeman stood in front of a bunker curiously watching as we passed through the gate that allowed access between the barbwire perimeter. Our driver accelerated instantly. Fragile two story plaster buildings were a parade of shadows cast by the numerous candles and lanterns within the humble hooches.

The small, two lane blacktop road was deserted. Eerie, erratic volumes of Vietnamese dialect drifted into the street from the hidden population. Cooking rice accented with peculiar spices filled the sultry air. Within minutes we were in open country traveling at maximum speed.

I was curious about what I was getting myself into in this strange land. I'd turned nineteen in January, and the draft board was waiting. The draft letter came, and the next thing I knew I was on my way to boot camp. Now in April, 1968 after an eighteen hour flight, I set foot in Vietnam.

The next break in the darkness came when the bus turned into a checkpoint similar to the one at the air base. Seconds later we stopped and were herded into a formation within a dark lot surrounded by barracks.

An army sergeant appeared in front of us. Alright, men! Listen up! He shouted. You have just arrived at the Ninetieth Replacement Unit, Republic of South Vietnam. You will be here no more than one or two days at which time you will be transferred to a permanent unit. The broad chested black paraded back and forth as he talked, periodically glancing into the group. Every uncertain eye was trained on him, eager for information and guidance. He continued, Now listen carefully. In case of rocket attack when you are in the billets, you will take a prone position on the immediate floor. People upstairs will assemble on the ground floor. He paused for effect. Do I make myself clear?

Yes, Sergeant! came a unison reply.

That's real good, he confided. Because in the last air attack there were men running around the compound like chickens with their heads cut off, hollering for their momma and Lord knows who else. Mellow laughter ignited. When the mirth subsided, he advised, You'll find bunks in the two billets to your left. Someone will be there to issue sheets. You have three mandatory formations a day, zero eight hundred hours, eleven hundred hours and fifteen hundred hours. Now, are there any questions? The sergeant allowed for a reply, then shouted, Aten hut! Fall out!

The wooden barracks were similar to the stateside versions except for the emittance of latrines. Also, the outside walls were constructed in such a fashion to allow ventilation between each strip of horizontal lumber. A double row of sandbags, three feet high, surrounded the entire structure.

After receiving sheets, I found an empty bunk and sat down. I watched the other men automatically make their beds. The air was filled with the smell of clean linen and the musky, damp odor coming from the concrete floor. I peeled off my sweat soaked shirt and walked outside. I addressed a small group gathered on the rear steps. Hot as hell, isn't it?

They all agreed.

There goes another one! Quipped the guy sitting below me, his face indistinguishable in the darkness. A huge flare glowed in the distant horizon. Streamers of smoke from past flares haphazardly decorated the illuminated sky. Small blinking red lights hovered above the display. Without warning, one of the lights spit a line of red-orange tracers to the ground. The traveling sound reached our ears with a faint bark of the helicopter's machine gun. Another red light repeated the scene.

Wow! That's wild! Someone expressed.

We watched without conversation. Each of us wondering what part we would play in Uncle Sam's Theater of Pain.

The next afternoon five of us were assigned to the One Ninety Ninth Light Infantry Brigade. I threw my bags into the back of a three quarter ton truck that waited for our departure.

A guy sitting near the tailgate greeted me as I climbed in. Howdy, my name's Mike Crocker. He offered his hand with a warm smile.

Glad to meet you, I replied. Mine's Mickey Bright. I sat down beside him, and three other men sat across from me.

Mike orchestrated the conversation. We've all introduced ourselves. He pointed to a black haired guy across from us. That's Melvin Lutes.

Hello, Melvin said with a nod.

I returned the gesture.

That's Dale Nichols, Mike replied. He pointed next to Melvin.

Exchanging greetings, I noticed a strong resemblance in the two. Both weighed around a hundred and seventy pounds, near six feet tall and each had puffy cheeks like the rest of us. A hint of our still developing maturity.

A small man with a pointed nose was the last to be introduced. This is Bill Peters, Mike finalized.

Glad to know you, Bill, I quipped.

Same here, he replied. Boy, I sure wish we'd get going. It's like an oven in here.

I lit a cigarette and offered Mike one. No thanks, I don't smoke.

I offered the pack around with no takers.

"What's your M.O.S? Mike asked.

Ninety-five Bravo, I replied.

Is that right? he answered. All of us, but Bill are M.P.'s, too.

I wonder what kind of duty we're in for? I asked.

He shrugged. Your guess is as good as mine.

Our driver appeared at the rear of the truck. You guys ready to dee dee?

If that means go, then yeah, Mike returned.

The driver laughed. That's what it means.

I grabbed the edge of the flip down wooden seat as the old truck bolted forward. Within a minute, we exited out the camp's main gate. Through the rear aperture, I watched the lone sentry standing beside the trough way. A sandbagged bunker sat behind him, partially concealed by rolling strands of barbwire lining the camp's perimeter.

Fifteen feet above the guard's head, hung a wide strip of lumber nailed at each end to tall poles that stood at each end of the road. 90th REPLACEMENT was painted across the gateway. It reminded me so much of a western ranch entrance that my mind projected the thought of Roy and Dale, arm in arm beneath it, singing Happy Trails To You.

We turned onto the road outside the camp. A bright orange moped rushed toward us piloted by a teenage boy. We all waved. It was our first encounter with the natives. The boy's white short sleeved shirt flapped in the wind as he raised his hand and returned our gesture. His Elvis hairdo was oblivious to the rushing breeze, accredited to the ungodly amount of hair oil that glistened in the radiant sun.

When the truck stopped, awaiting access to the main highway, the boy swerved the whining bike off the road and passed us in a cloud of dust. Shortly, the three quarter lunged into motion again, making a right turn.

Looks like a village over there, Mel commented.

We clambered to the rear of the truck. Our necks craned to the driver's side of the vehicle. Several hundred yards in the distance, tin roofs filled a shallow valley painted with green foliage. As we moved on, the minimal glimpse of the hamlet was replaced with grassy rolling plains, dotted with various kinds of tropical plants.

Man, do you believe all the concertina wire? I asked, shifting my attention to the other side of the road. Bunkers made of dust laden sandbags, systematically lined the inside of the barbed entanglement running parallel to the road.

Looks like a camp, Mike surmised.

The truck made a right turn onto a road where the wire ended. A bunker sat in the middle, dividing the entrance and the exit lanes. More barbwire lined each side of the small gravel road denoting two separate outposts.

A half mile down the road we turned left and passed another bunker sitting in the middle of a smaller road allowing admittance into the camp. The maze of roads and wire was confusing.

Weel, ya all think this is the place? Mike asked.'"

Looks like a mining camp in the eighteen hundreds, I clipped.

The Brigade had numerous wooden buildings and canvas tents that sprawled across a dusty cleared area absent of trees or plants. The units were sectioned by a simple design of packed down dirt roads. Our vehicle made two turns and came to rest beside a large, one room building with a canvas roof. We unloaded and waited outside.

A sandy haired, middle aged staff sergeant came out and addressed us. Hello, men. My name's Sergeant Monroe. I'm one of the instructors here at Redcatcher. Before we could ask, he advised us, Redcatcher is part of the One Ninety Ninth Infantry Brigade. Its purpose is to familiarize you with Vietnam before you're assigned to a permanent unit. We'll show you how to ford a river, how to distinguish booby traps, and you will have an afternoon on the hand grenade range. The dark tanned sergeant took his sunglasses off. Can any of you type?

Peters raised his hand.

Sergeant looked at him quizzically. Are you sure?

Sixty words per minute, Peters declared adamantly.

Alright, come on. I'll give you a try. We need a clerk. He directed his attention back to us. The rest of you pick up your bags. We grabbed them and followed him to the front of the orderly room. He pointed down a lane to six tents assembled on one side of it. You will be bunking in the third tent down. You can get your chow across the way behind the tent at the Seventh Support Mess Hall. Your next mandatory formation is tomorrow morning at eight hundred hours. You have any questions?

How long are we gonna be here? I asked.

You'll be assigned to a unit within a week, he answered. We picked up our bags, ready to move out. Okay, if there's no more questions, go ahead and get your area in shape.

Right, Sarg, Mike answered for all of us.

That must be the shower house, Mel stated, looking at a narrow six by twenty structure across from the tent area. The sound of dripping water escaped from the spaces between the overlapping one by six boards. A musty odor swelled from the saturated ground beneath.

I stuck my nose into my underarm. I think I better visit it tonight! My droll act was met with laughter.

Mel pulled the tent flap open. A yellowish sliver of light illuminated the slow sway of cobwebs inside. Upon our entry, airborne dust danced around our boots.

We set up house and decided to go to chow. The four of us walked leisurely down the slope behind the tent. We hopped a small gully at the bottom and forged up the sister hill. Near the top stood four poles holding up a twelve feet tin roof which sheltered a solitary card table. Long benches made of coarse two by eights striped the hill in front of a miniature billboard that accommodated a white bed sheet.

Pretty classy movie house, huh? I commented to Dale.

He shot me a timid grin.

As we crossed the road at the top of the hill, I recognized the bunker we had passed by earlier. It was manned by a M.P. Let's stop and talk to the M.P. after chow, I suggested.

Good idea, Mel quipped. Maybe we can find out what the duty is like.

The sound of banging pots and pans could be heard as we neared the rear of the mess hall.

Mike curled his nose. What's that smell? He questioned repulsively.

Mel walked to an iron grate covering a hole in the ground. It's old garbage cooking in the sun. Makes you hungry, don't it?

Yeah, I can't wait, I shot back as I opened the screen door to the large green painted building. A blast of torrid air from the overworked ovens met me. I pulled a metal tray out from a wooden cabinet against the wall. Reviewing the food before me on a steam table, I realized my appetite had been curtailed by the sweltering climate. I heaped my tray with lettuce salad and found an empty table in the dining area.

I spotted a large metal cooler in the corner of the room. I filled my glass and gulped down the lukewarm contents that passed for iced tea. With a refill, I returned to my table that was now occupied with my new found friends.

Are ya all part rabbit, Mick? Mike chirped, checking out my salad.

With a snort, I answered, Naw, the damn heat's got my gut screwed up.

It's not the heat! It's this army grub! Mel complained as he held up a half raw spud he'd forked from his mashed potatoes.

After chow we stepped outside. A light breeze rewarded our perspiring bodies. At the end of the building, we observed an aged mama-san hosing out a galvanized trash can. She wore a slick black pair of pajama bottoms and a tattered red blouse. The toothless old lady ignored us as we passed by, intensely involved with her task.

Man, she's a real baby! Wonder if she's got any older sisters? I wisecracked.

Mike shook his head, dejectedly. Ya all are demented, Mick.

Dale projected one of his sheepish smiles.

Mel's attention was directed at the M.P. behind the bunker a few yards from us. He cupped his hands. Say, could you tell us where the P.X. is?

Make a right at the cross roads. It's the small building on your left, the policeman, covered in red dust, shouted back. A forty five automatic pistol rested in a worn black leather holster at his side. A black helmet liner with white letters M.P. and a M.P. arm band designated his authority.

Okay, thanks! Mel replied with a wave. Let's keep moving. We can talk to him later, he directed to us.

We strolled casually down the road to the small PX that was visible in the distance. A pleasant stillness seemed to settle across camp as sundown neared. Enjoying the moment, I lit a cigarette and walked in silence, feeling comfortable with my present company.

The store sat several yards off the road. It's dimensions were no bigger than a one room cabin. The unpainted walls were dry and faded. My eyes squinted, adjusting to the unlit room.

A G.I. stood on a rough cement floor at the rear of the building. Sorry gentlemen. We're about ready to close.

I just want some cigarettes, I replied. Shoddy shelves made of long boards rested on cement blocks. A meager supply of canned goods and cosmetics were displayed on them. Give me a couple packs of Marlboro.

He handed me the smokes. That will be twenty cents, please.

Twenty cents! I exclaimed. Are you kidding me?

He smiled at my surprise and shook his head no.

Okay then, I crowed, pulling out a crumpled wad of Military Payment Certificates I'd been issued. We called them M.P.C. for short. I smoothed out two ten cent notes, the new form of currency amused me. It looked like it should have been in a monopoly game. This ought to buy Boardwalk, I joked, handing over the bills.

Give me a can of them thar peanuts will ya? Mike pointed to his selection on the shelf. The three of us walked out while he paid.

Place reminds me of a trading post, I commented.

Hey! You guys want some nuts? Mike offered from behind us. I waited for him to catch up and dipped my fingers into the presented can.

Thanks, I replied before I put the salty goobers in my mouth. We turned onto the narrow cul-de-sac leading back to our tent.

After a much needed shower, we gathered behind our nomad domain. I sat in the doorway watching Dale put a camouflage cloth on his steel pot.

Looks like they're going to show a movie tonight, Mike stated as he looked across the gully at the benches speckled with G.I.s.

Let's check it out, I proposed.

We approached the projectionist, tediously working on his machine.

Excuse me. The guy looked up. When does the movie start? Mel asked.

In about fifteen minutes if I ever get this thing put back together, he snapped.

Mel chuckled, Alright, thanks.

Abruptly, the voice of Fats Domino blurted from the doorway of a quonset hut that sat against the perimeter wire twenty five feet away.

"Ain't That A Shame. Good song, I said. Must be some kind of club.

Sounds like it, Mel agreed.

Hey, while we're waiting for the movie, why don't we mosey over and talk to that M.P. now, Mike suggested.

Good idea. Let's go, I said, leading the way. As we neared the bunker, I slowed down and hollered, How's it going tonight? Even though I was new in the country, I knew enough not to rush a perimeter post in the dark.

Just going! He returned.

With the acknowledgment, we stepped forward. Face to face, he stood about my height of five feet eleven inches. He weighed maybe a hundred and eighty pounds. Clumps of curly hair sprouted from under his helmet liner. Blue eyes glinted when he clicked his flashlight on to inspect us. I judged his age at twenty or so. You're F.N.G.s, aren't you?

Huh? I questioned.

Fucking new guys, he explained.

I laughed. Yeah, we flew in last night.

Damn, makes me feel short, he snorted.

How long you been over here? Mel asked.

He answered quickly, Five months, twelve days, nineteen hours ----. He hesitated to look at his watch. And twenty five minutes.

How's the duty here? I asked, then added, We're all M.P.s.

Is that right! Man, our Platoon Sergeant will be glad to hear that, he exclaimed. We're hurting bad for replacements. I've been putting in at least twelve hours a day since I got here. I live more in these bunkers than I do at the unit.

You see much action? Mike inquired.

He laughed. Man, it's peaceful as hell one day and the next Charlie's blasting the shit out of things. It's a freaky fucking war. Take tonight for instance, here we are out here bullshitting and taking it easy. Hard to believe that not more than a month ago we had clerks and cooks out here on the perimeter. They were blasting Charlie off the wire compound. We listened eagerly, unable to grasp the reality of what he said. He concluded, It's cooled down a lot since Tet, but they still zoom a lot of rockets in on us.

Yeah, it does seem pretty peaceful around here, I conjectured.

Just don't let it fool you, --ah --,. He stalled for a name.

Mick, I complied.

Mick, my name's Tom, Tom Eddins.

I shook his hand and the other three did the same.

Sounds like the movie started, Mel stated.

I guess we'll be splitting then, I replied.

Alright, I'll tell the sergeant you're at Redcatcher, he advised us.

We heard a muffled pop of a hand flare. The fizzling ball of fire drifted gently over our heads, directing our way in the uncanny light. We stopped at the quonset hut and bought sodas.

The movie was an old Randolph Scott western. I stared at the screen, thinking about the contrast between home and the nearby barbwire.

We stood in formation the next morning watching the impatient cadre sergeant wait for the remaining men to assemble. Satisfied that the group of almost fifty men was present, he began his instructions. Alright, men, today's training consists of the proper method to cross a stream and booby trap detection. But first, I want you to line up single file in front of the arms convex to draw a M-16 rifle. After you've drawn your weapon, report back here in full combat gear. Any questions? He looked over the formation. Good! Troop, aten hut! Fall out!

While I stood in line to get my weapon, a short sandy haired guy in front of me asked, You got a light?

Sure. I handed him my zippo.

Thanks, he said as he returned it. River crossing! Hell, I can't even swim! The cocky little dude raved, That's why I didn't join the Navy!

I gave him a quizzical smile.

Man, it's not funny, he exclaimed nervously.

His friend said, Calm down, Bill. We won't let you drown.

That's real reassuring, Ray. Who the hell died and made you lifeguard?

He was still complaining as he walked off after drawing his rifle. I drew mine and returned to the tent to get my gear. After I completed that task, I stepped into formation beside Mike. He tipped up his green plastic canteen, letting water escape and trickle down his chin.

Ya all want some? He offered, wiping his mouth.

Naw, I'm cool, I answered.

Mike snapped the canteen back into its canvas holder on his side.

Man, a guy needs to be a fat necked football player to wear these heavy assed steel pots, I complained.

You'll get used to it, Mike replied.

I started to retort, but our leader interrupted. Listen up! Sergeant Crowley will lead you to the designated training area. He pointed to the perimeter fence where the sergeant stood. You'll follow him by twos through the wire, across the road and down the hill to the river. He gave the command. Aten hut! Move out!

An open iron framed gate cross hatched with stretched barbwire allowed a narrow opening between the running spiral heap of barbed entanglement. As I passed through, I spotted a taut strand of cord attached to one of the many trip flares planted within the brambly metal. Charlie trying to sneak into camp would set off the flares.

Dale and I crossed the road and ventured