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As I said earlier my limited experience in combat was fraught with
bizarre stories that quite frankly I don’t think anyone could dream up. You had
to experience them firsthand so you would actually believe it was true and not
the conjuring of a crack addict.
After our long flight from Pope AFB to Point Salinas Airfield we rushed
off the C-141 with our gear into the blackness of night as the tropical heat
still radiated off the tarmac. Quickly sweat began to form under our new BDUs,
you may remember that the first generation Battle Dress Uniforms left a lot to
be desired in design and utility. Anyway, we moved up the slope of the seaward
hill overlooking the airfield and eventually they passed the word that we
should make ourselves comfortable and rack out. Hmm, okay, if you say so.
The constant roar of aircraft and the heavy equipment rushing from
end-to-end of the airfield created quite a cacophony of sound, but as any
infantryman will tell you, when told to go to sleep it is a rare grunt who
doesn’t jump at the opportunity. Wrapped in my poncho liner I drifted off to
sleep cradling my M16 wondering just what the morning would bring.
I didn’t have long to find out as within a couple hours the coolness of
the tropical night quickly gave way to the gathering warmth of a new Caribbean
morning. I caught the faintest whiff of C-ration coffee and heard murmuring
voices as I peeked out into the new day to see the Battalion Commander perched
on his rucksack shaving. My first thought was, “Oh brother, this does NOT bode
well. This war is gonna suck.”
In The Rear With The Gear
They split the battalion staff into two elements, a TOC forward and the
TOC rear, I got to take it in the rear while all the cool kids got to be
forward. We moved into the cement factory and as we occupied the site one of
the S3 officers directed me to take a private up a nearby hill to do a security
sweep. He said that once we get to the crest of the hill to wait for his signal
to come back down – okay, sure. Whatever.
So, off we go clearing as much turf as two guys can and eventually ended
up at the crest of the hill. I remember looking down into the next valley over
and it was crawling with soldiers! Oh crap, they were Americans and I was
pretty sure no one but the young captain knew we were up there on that hilltop.
As we lay there I started to get a little nervous with the air traffic overhead
and the valley filled with Paratroopers spoiling for a fight. The last thing I
wanted was to be on the receiving end of all that massed firepower so I shrank
down behind a tree and quietly pulled some vegetation in front of me in case
some eagle eye caught sight of me.
So there we were, laying there along a ridgeline pulling “security,” waiting
for the signal to return to the TOC. I’m not sure how long we were on that
hill, but it was long enough to get rained on – twice. Finally, after pondering
WTF happened at the TOC that he would leave us up there for a couple hours.
Finally I’d had enough and we walked back down the hill. The little bastard had
FORGOTTEN about us! He sent me up a hill with a half-assed plan and FORGOT!?!
This is NOT going like I thought combat operations were supposed to go.
The cement plant was dry, relatively clean and we quickly set up our
radios and assorted gear to continue operations.
Between sitting around listening to the radio for message traffic and
staying out of trouble I slept as much as I could. Shift work is shift work
regardless of where you do it so I tried to get into some sort of rhythm of
operation. That night as the TOC Rear was adjusting to the black tropical night
we noticed that a yard light of some kind down in the village was illuminating
our compound. Not a good thing by any means, and since the Big Ragoo hadn’t
been on a patrol of any kind he decided that he was going to take one person
down to the ‘ville’ and “knock that light out.” Guess whom he chose.
A short time later I was leading him down a darkened street towards the
offending light. With a watchful eye, I moved down the street as quietly as
possible with Bobo the wonder-turd huffing and puffing along behind, all the
while I was wondering just when I was going to get my ass shot off either with
or by this clown. Along the way we encountered a Grenadian civilian walking
along the roadway, suddenly the light didn’t seem so important as we quickly
intercepted him. Since there was a dusk-to-dawn curfew, the pucker factor
kicked in as I drew down, told him to halt, raise his hands and don’t do
anything stupid. The Big Ragoo seemed to follow my lead but I really didn’t pay
much attention to him as I got the guy face down on the ground. I started to
question him as I patted him down. The more he talked the more I realized that
he wasn’t all there – as in fucking Looney-tunes. The yellow Playtex rubber gloves
he was wearing should have been a tip off but then a knife fell out his glove
and on the asphalt the pucker factor really kicked in. Retrieving the knife I
got a better look at it and noted that it was a steak knife!
Anyway, it became abundantly clear
that this guy was a couple sandwiches short of a picnic. He kept talking
nonsense as I told him to shut the fuck up. Finally, I’d had enough and smacked
him in the back of the head with the muzzle of my weapon. That seemed to work
at least for a while. After I trussed him up as well as I could we hauled him
to his feet and off we went to find the MPs and hand him over. Later, as we
headed back to the TOC, the Big Ragoo was pretty excited and said with a
straight face, “Yeah sergeant Woods, it was just like in the movies, you know
good cop, bad cop… I was the good cop and you were the bad cop.” Yeah right.
The Singleton
I looked for opportunities to get away from the Head Shed and I was
actually happy the night I got ordered to pull security on a lowboy that had
broken down. It carried most of the Headquarters Company’s rucksacks and sundry
other gear. We weren’t guarding them from the Cubans – we were guarding them
from being pilfered by the Battalion! Night fell like it does in the tropics –
fast. With little else to do I crawled up on the pile of stinky gear and had a
quick bite of a C-ration John Wayne bar as I lay there looking up at the night
sky as the bright pinpricks of stars stared back at me. I chuckled to myself
that I was probably the safest person on the whole damn island, since a company
of paratroopers was set up in a perimeter around me. Listening to the murmuring
voices of my protectors and the cacophony of jungle noises I drifted off into a
dreamless sleep.
Someone screamed a high-pitched scream during the night. It woke me with
a start as I jumped straight up, poncho liner cast off and clutching my M16
staring out into the dark. A nightmare I suppose. I never did figure out if it
was me or someone else.
I lay there on that tower of gear thinking I’d made a terrible mistake
parking my butt atop this juicy target. If a Cuban were out there with an RPG
it would disintegrate this pile of TA-50 and me with it. Nothing I could do
then except say a quick prayer that it was just a troop of monkeys testing the
perimeter and not a bunch of bad guys.
The entire perimeter jerked itself awake at the animal-like and with
bleary eyes stared out into the darkness as leaders scurried around in the darkness
checking each position. In time the murmuring voices, creaking of gear and
scuffing boots stilled as the night noises returned. Again, with little else to
do I eased off my perch down to the ground where I dozed off once more and
slept soundly until stand-to was called a few scant hours later.
Stand-to is an interesting process that when I was a private training at
Mother Bragg I never had fully explained to me. I knew of course, about French
and Indians attacking at dawn, but my mentors did little more than kick the
bottom of my boots and told me to “pack
up my shit” at some ungodly hour prior to sunrise, I was told it was BMNT
or Beginning Morning Nautical Twilight. You were to be packed up, facing out
watching your sector as the night transitioned into daylight. The running joke
was sleep until stand-to and then nap until dawn. But now, stand-to took on a
whole new meaning as I stuffed my poncho liner back into my rucksack and eased
over into a prone position with my rifle pointed out into the gathering light
of dawn. Shapeless blobs of blacks and grays formed into different hues of
green interspersed with spots of color. Like sunset, sunrise happens fast this
close to the equator.
Atrocity Averted
The cool night air rapidly gave way to that soggy, wet-blanket-feeling of
the oppressive tropical heat. The temperature and the wet-bulb count seemed to
race each other to see which would be worse to endure. In due time the lowboy
was repaired and our snail’s pace movement from/to (I don’t remember) the pig
farm continued. I sat there wedged between some equipment with my rifle lying
across my lap, lazily watching the scenery pass by but keeping a close eye on
the tree line. I was also trying to ignore The Big Ragoo who was going on and
on about a friend of his who had been killed the day before while on a leader’s
recon of a target.
It really was too bad that the young captain got killed, but The Big
Ragoo’s tirade was becoming tiresome. I tried to block out his whiney voice
lamenting the loss of his buddy but was thus far unsuccessful. About that time
the flatbed crested a hill and a valley opened up on our left side, it was
quite a vista after the green crush of the jungle that seemed to steal the
breath from you.
Suddenly I saw a dark-skinned soldier in a camouflage uniform, blue beret
and a British FN/FAL rifle. Evaluating the potential threat: I saw the beret,
the weapon and familiar British splinter-pattern camo to confirm that he was a
friendly, that and the nonchalant way he was moving among the villagers and
chatting with them immediately told me that he was not a threat. About this
time “The Big Ragoo” saw the same soldier and started to literally froth at the
mouth. He started saying, “shoot him, shoot him Sergeant Woods!” I looked over
at him and said simply, “no,” and went back to my daydreaming.
Having studied this event in retrospect here was a “leader” who was just
as well-armed as I was, had a similar amount of ammunition and capable of
engaging a perceived threat yet he was unwilling to pull the trigger. Can you
imagine the shit storm if I had followed his instructions? I have no doubt I
would have hit what I was aiming at but engaging a target among non-combatants?
Sweet Mother of God he was perfectly willing to have me commit murder and undoubtedly
initiate an atrocity of unknown proportions because everyone else on the
flatbed were likely to start shooting too! Whattadirtbag. And it only got worse
from there.
I’m Hungry Let’s Eat
The Big Ragoo’s primary motivation was food – preferably lots of it. He
was always on the lookout for more chow, so you never left your C-rats
unguarded. Speaking of food – and what grunt doesn’t talk about chow? In 1983
the military began transitioning from C-rations to MREs (Meals Ready to Eat).
The only reason I discovered that fact was that I saw the battalion supply
officer being driven in a quarter-ton eating out of an OD green bag. Sure glad
the S4 was quality control – jackass.
Anyway, back to the focus of this rant. As I said, the big Ragoo’s
primary motivation was food, chewing tobacco and soda pop – not necessarily in
that order. This leads me to the only shot I fired on Grenada – and it was from
my Personally Owned Weapon (POW), a nice little .38 caliber stub-nosed
revolver. I carried it in a nice high-rise holster under my jacket so it
generally went unnoticed.
One day as I was snoozing in the corner of the cement factory I heard a
commotion outside. Noise coming across the street from a nearby warehouse
stirred The Big Ragoo into action. I felt a tap on the bottom of my boot as he
stated, “Sergeant Woods, they are looting that warehouse across the street,
maybe you should go see if there’s anything good over there. You know, like
Cokes.”
Peaking up from underneath my helmet I replied, “you’re serious?” Yes, he
replied, go check it out. Grumbling to myself, I collected up my battle rattle
and started heading out the door – alone to check out a group of looters. Along
the way I decided I’d better have a little backup so I motioned for one of our
drivers to get his gear and come along with me – this was the same private that
had gone up the hill on my security sweep. Now there were two of us against a
mob.
On the way out of the compound (to join in the looting) I saw that the
battalion support-types were setting up shop. Ammunition was being sorted and
stacked, rations piled up and things just getting organized. I stopped at one
of the clusters of soldiers and asked the NCO if I could have a couple folks to
go with me to help with security. The response was pretty much along the lines
of, “fuck off.”
Roger that,
fuck you very much.
As I began to cross the street I saw the Grenadians running off with
their loot – they were taking everything, to include (and I’m not making this
up) the kitchen sink! Two guys were literally carrying off kitchen fixtures! At
about that time as I was in the middle of the street a small car came roaring
up and screeching to a halt just a few feet from me and out popped a white guy
frantically gesturing towards the warehouse.
I spun on my heels to react to this sudden threat, my rifle leveled as I
recalled a message from the night before we that there was a possibility of
Caucasian (white) infiltrators on the island, apparently someone thought East
German agents were a potential threat. I came within about two seconds of
cutting him in half when he shouted in heavily accented English, “My warehouse!
They are looting my warehouse!” I instantly switched modes from reluctant
looter to protector. I told the guy to follow me and I turned to the Private
and said, “You cover him,” knowing I couldn’t be too careful. Looking over my
shoulder I saw that he fell in behind me and still there were no signs that
anyone else from Task Force was coming to lend a hand.
And Then There Were Three.
Entering through a break in the fence, I saw all of these beaming faces
as the looters ran off with their ill-gotten gains. Rounding the corner I saw
that the corrugated tin building had a gaping hole where someone had pulled the
siding back like a banana peel and that the padlocked door had been forced
open.
I tried yelling and getting them to leave the goods and to depart the
building, but it did no good, it was like a feeding frenzy and they were going
to get whatever they could. I can’t say that I blamed the Grenadians for taking
advantage of the situation – they were for the most part dirt-poor, but the
frantic owner behind me was watching his livelihood being hauled away by
looters.
Then remembering that I had a little equalizer strapped to my hip I
pulled out my handgun and knowing that my first round up the spout was a load
of snake shot – we were on a tropical island. I raised the pistol and fired the
harmless birdshot into the ceiling.
Everyone froze. Wide-eyed, they all turned towards this big, ugly American
with guns and who was apparently not afraid to use them. I shouted for them to
drop what they took and, “… get the fuck out.” They scattered like cockroaches
when you turn on the light. I directed the Private to guard the door as I did a
sweep of the building to ensure the looters, ‘had left the building.’
One thing that struck me as totally odd was that I had to wade through a
waist-deep sea of travel-packets of Kleenex tissues in order to do a full sweep
of the building. Apparently the cases had been ripped open and tossed to the
side as looters looked for more valuable items. One item I noticed that had
apparently been left alone were cases of wine stacked to the ceiling! Duly
noted for future reference.
Thanking us profusely, the owner said that his security guards were on
the way and begged that we remain onsite until their arrival. Minutes ticked
off as I meandered around the building until their arrival. Seeing that
everything was good to go we headed back across the road. About this time I
encountered a whole bunch of soldiers rushing across the street in response to
the gunshot. They were juggling weapons, TA-50, helmets; one knucklehead even
had an M72A2 LAW rocket! Cocking my helmet back on my forehead I stepped off
with just the slightest bit of swagger and said everything was okay now and
that they could return to whatever they were doing.
The Big Ragoo
never did ask about Cokes when I returned to the TOC.
Captain, oh Captain…
We had a captain in the battalion who happened to discover one of the few
white women on the island and struck up
– shall we say - a friendship? He would disappear for hours at a time
and return looking refreshed and more relaxed than the rest of the battalion.
One day he ordered me to drive him to his liaison in one of the Ops jeeps.
Since it was just he and I, without the benefit of any security, I drove the
quarter-ton as fast as I could with my .38 revolver in my lap and M16 close at
hand. The only conversation I remember other than terse directions – “turn
left, turn right, “ that sort of thing – was him telling me I didn’t have to
drive so fast. I replied simply, “Yes I do,” and I continued on my way – there
had been reports of infiltrators and snipers so I was concerned about my life
and he was worried about getting his Johnson wet. Eventually we came to a
nondescript house where he told me to stop. He hopped out of the jeep before I
came to a stop and bounded up the steps. I was uncomfortable leaving him there
on his own, but hey, you roll the dice, you take the chance. I spun the jeep
around and was quickly on my way back to the TOC.
Some time after I returned to the TOC the BC LTC Nightingale called for a
meeting with this wayward captain and apparently no one knew where he was
except me. “Does anyone know where he is?” the Nighthawk demanded. I gleefully
replied to the affirmative and the colonel told me, “Go get him.” Upon return
to the captain’s love shack, I knocked at the door of the now darkened house.
Eventually, a curtain fluttered in the window and shortly the captain appeared
in the doorway with a demand of why I was there. “The BC wants you. Now.” The
color seemed to drain from his face and he disappeared once more and returned
shortly with all of his gear. On the return trip the captain didn’t complain about
my driving. Don’t know whatever happened, but I’ll bet it was memorable.
And So It Continued
At some point the Battalion was pulled back to Point Salinas Airfield to
be repositioned on the island. Once more it was hurry up and wait. And once
more I was trying to stay out of everyone’s way. And once more it didn’t work.
I tell you what though; it was fascinating to watch the army dance as units
were repositioned, supplies stockpiled and equipment redistributed. The Big
Ragoo must have been in the ‘hunt-and-gather’ mode because he noted that
someone rode by in a quarter-ton drinking from a large can of fruit juice.
He turned to the S3 Sergeant Major, MSG George Alexander and pointed it
out that we should try to get some of that juice. By this time I had hunkered
down into a snoozing position with my helmet covering my face. Although
wide-awake, I tried to pretend that I was asleep and oblivious to what I knew
was coming next. I failed. I felt a tap on the bottom of my foot. I tipped up
my helmet to see Top Alexander looking down at me with his hands resting on his
ammo pouches. “Sergeant Woods, I want you to go down to the end of the runway
and see if you can get some fruit juice from the supply guys down there.”
Looking up I responded, “You are kidding right?” Nope, came the reply.
See if you can’t flag down a jeep and get us some juice.
Yes, I rolled my eyes and grumbled as I collected up my gear. Top
Alexander grabbed me by the elbow and hissed, “Go down there and see what you
can get.” Knowing that Alexander was no one to be trifled with I nodded my head
and replied curtly, “Roger that Top,” and moved out towards the supply point at
the end of the runway. For anyone who was there, they know just how damn far it
was. Trudging along I was unable to flag down a ride and eventually I came in
front of the pile of stuff wondering just how the hell I was going to get a
case of fruit juice.
As the flurry of activity swirled around me I quickly caught sight of a
Lieutenant I recognized! Here was a former infantry LT who had reclassed
branches to Logistics and was now in charge of the cornucopia of supplies just
waiting for me! Hell, he even remembered me – I was golden! As I explained my
mission to him, he quickly replied no problem and instructed one of his soldiers
to give me a case of grapefruit juice. Thanking him profusely I threw the box
up on my shoulder and began the return trip. Eventually the driver and TC in a
Task Force gun jeep took pity on me and had me to climb up on the hood of their
already overloaded jeep. “Hold on Woody!” and away we went careening down the
flight line faster than I care to remember. Shortly we came back to my starting
point, hopping off, I thanked them for a spectacular ride and dropped the case
of juice off at The Big Ragoo’s feet. He acted like it was Christmas morning as
he tore into the case and I returned to my spot in what little shade there was.
As I said, the airfield was abuzz with activity, with aircraft and
vehicles doing a seemingly disorganized dance, jockeying for position to load
or unload their burdens. About this time as I drank the tepid water from my
canteen a C-130 pulled up on the nearby parking apron and spun around to
offload cargo. As the big bird’s clamshell doors began to open as we ducked out
of the way of the prop blast and JP-4 fumes. Like a scene from a movie the
super-cooled air inside the aircraft quickly condensed into a thick fog as it
billowed out the back of the plane before it finally evaporated in the tropical
heat. Shortly after that the pilot powered down his aircraft out from its
darkened interior was a pallet full of soda pop! The Big Ragoo’s eyes got as
large as goose eggs as the case of juice was forgotten and he then moved
quickly to see if he could commandeer some Coca-Cola. I just kept drinking from
my canteen wondering when the insanity would end.
“This
is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world ….”
At the time of the deployment I had a nice .38 caliber stub nosed
revolver. I had been looking for a small lightweight pistol as a hideout gun
and found it in a Colt Agent, as I considered it, a poor man’s Colt Detective.
As I mentioned earlier I carried this handgun with me on the trip just in case
I might need it. My main thought was something to quickly dispatch Jake No-Shoulders
should he decide to come visit and to that end I carried a mixed load of
ammunition – a six-shot revolver, I carried five chambers loaded with an empty
chamber under the hammer. The first two cartridges were bird shot/snake loads
followed up by three slugs. I reasoned that should the need arise for me to
engage a two-legged snake I should be able to squeeze off the two relatively
harmless shot shells in quick order to get a slug downrange. Anyway, I kept it
hidden for the most part and no one noticed or questioned my extra firepower.
I already described my experience in the warehouse and the jeep but one
night while we were set up in a battalion perimeter I took it upon myself to go
check security. It was still daylight but sunset was coming. After a while I
came upon the scout platoon’s gun jeeps set up in their night laager. Wandering
around shooting the shit with the scouts one young soldier approached me with a
question, “SSG Woods is it true you brought your own pistol with you?” I
replied to the affirmative and pulled up my BDU jacket to show him my weapon.
He broke out in a gigantic smile and said, “I brought my pistol too,” and
pulled open his fatigue jacket to show me a .44 magnum revolver with six-inch
barrel riding in a beautiful leather shoulder holster. I guess size really does
matter!
Homeward Bound
There was the company commander who for some reason unknown to me decided
to beat the shit out of one of his soldiers until another young sky-soldier
leveled his M-60 machine gun at him and told him to stop or he would cut him in
half. When I left the island my final duty to the battalion was to escort these
two young soldiers back to face charges at Fort Bragg. I don’t know whatever
happened to them but hearing their side of the story was a bit different than
the official report.
As I was getting ready to go back to Mother Bragg, I had to go through an
MP clearing station designed to recover any weapons and explosives that might
otherwise find its way back to the states. From my observations it was going to
be a pretty thorough inspection and I wondered what I should do with my pistol.
In dramatic fashion I contemplated throwing it into the ocean rather than
letting a nasty leg MP get his mitts on it, but I couldn’t bring myself to
actually follow through with it. But I had to do something pretty quickly.
Wandering back by the marshaling area where soldiers who had already been
screened were isolated behind triple strand concertina wire. Lost in thought I
started to turn away when all of a sudden someone from behind the wire shouted
out, “Hey Woody!” Spinning around I saw one of the guys I had gone to NWTC with
the year before, a M-60 Blackhawk crew chief, we hadn’t seen each other since
the wild trip back from Alaska – that’s a story best saved for another time.
After we had caught up I confided in him my problem with my Privately
Owned Weapon to which he replied, “Hell, hold on a minute,” as he spun on his
heel and disappeared into GP medium tent. A short while later he ambled back
out wearing his issue shoulder holster and told me to hand it over. Checking to
see if the coast was clear I quickly handed over my pistol and he just as
quickly shoved the gun in the holster. Shortly after that I got through the
clearance checkpoint and recovered my handgun.
Post-Deployment
I had already been reassigned to a sister battalion when we got word that
Task Force was redeploying. I took some time off and headed down to Green Ramp
to join in the welcome home. Standing there I was approached by another misfit.
Mike Jacquard, who had recently been assigned to 5th Special Forces
Group, was also on hand to welcome the troopies home. Little did I know that in
a few short months I too would be SF-bound.
Of course it didn’t take me nearly as long to get back to the brigade
area that it did for the battalion to load up on Cattle Cars and get delivered.
I wandered over to the shoppette to get some beer to welcome some friends
properly when all of a sudden, running across Ardennes Street a young soldier
from a buddy’s platoon was waving around three or four paychecks. “Oh my God,
oh my God, I’ve got $800.00, do you know how much beer I can buy with $800.00
dollars? Spinning on his heel he took off in another direction and that was the
last I saw of him. I sure hope he got his beer.
Then there was the young soldier whose father (grandfather?) had given
him the Combat Infantryman’s badge that he had earned during WWII. The young
trooper wanted to wear his CIB for the next in-ranks inspection but a well
meaning – but anal NCO wouldn’t let him because it was “different” than the
current issued badge.
A few months later – I ran into Brian Wadsworth from Cold Steel Bravo
who, during our conversation lamented about a statement of charges for a lost
sleeping bag. Apparently he never got the word to leave his fart sack in his
B-bag and ended up toting it all the way to a tropical island – or some dumbass
countermanded my initial instructions.
Anyway, as Brian described it, during a movement from the LZ he was
carrying so much stuff (he was an M60 gunner) that he dumped the bag assuming
that he would be able to write it off as a combat loss – no such luck. The
Division Commander at the time was a well-known bean counter that prided
himself on cleaning up the property books of the division. As a matter-of-fact
his nickname was “The Bean Counter.”
The Bean Counter Strikes Back
While I was still assigned to Task Force Rear Detachment one of the most
detestable jobs I’ve ever had to do was to cut the locks on every duffle bag
that came back in a connex from Grenada. Our job as directed from higher was to
remove every poncho liner, 2-quart canteen, set of OG-107s and pairs of jungle
boots that we found. The Bean Counter wanted to refill the war stocks that were
emptied to outfit the units prior to and during the deployment. It didn’t
matter that we couldn’t be sure that the soldiers may have actually purchased
some of the gear we were taking. I know I’d purchased my own poncho liners and
2-quart canteens
