On the Island of Spice. Finally.

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 5^th 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