What is Your Personal Account of Serving in the Vietnam War?

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COL Mikel J. Burroughs I served at Cau Ha Combat base in Quang Nam province. I was on two long operations, Pipestone Canyon and Durham Peak where hot meals were brought to us via helicopter about once a week when possible. I craved the bread and milk and the break from C Rations. After these operations, we went on two day in-country R&R's at China Beach. The barbed wire enclosure was on the beach and had Marines guarding it. We were issued new jungle utilities and had our fill of hamburgers, hot dogs, beer and sodas. At night they showed movies on a plywood screen will logs to sit on. These were much needed breaks. I remember the heat, bugs, being wet from sweat or rain and overall being dog tired, miserable, and angry. Sharing the misery with your fellow brothers helped. I did not like being in the rear because of work details like filling sandbags or the one time I had to burn the shitters. I will not go into details about the actual combat. The day after I left country, my best friend was killed and I heard about this while I was at Okinawa before returning to the states. When we finally arrived at MCAS El Toro, we took a bus to LAX where we were welcomed home by mostly young men and women that tried to block our way and tried to anger us. I had one woman ask me how many babies had I killed and another ask me to repent for my sins. I can't stand protesters of any kind and do not easily trust folks that have not served.

I’m sure I must have had one of the briefest combat tours in Viet Nam among current RP members, yet my story can’t be brief. After all, I probably spent ten years of my life fighting the Vietnam War one night in 1969.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no regrets. I wanted to go to war -- any war -- when I was a kid. All my childhood buddies had fathers that single handedly won WWII, while my father never wore a uniform. I didn’t want a son of mine to experience the humiliation I did over being born to a father that never served.

I was the model wimpy kid. I knew I was not destined to leave my mark on the military. For the year 1966 -- the second semester of my junior year and first semester of my senior year in high school -- the number one selling song in the USA was ‘Ballad of the Green Berets. I had actually heard about Special forces five years earlier because my older brother had some limited exposure to SF in Germany. As one of the smallest guys in a high school of 3,600 students, I couldn’t even fantasize about becoming a “Green Beret.” Top it off, I’m a lover, not a fighter. But all the big guys in high school bragged that they were going to be “Green Berets” What a joke!

Upon high school graduation, I immediately enlisted. I was hoping to never hear a gun fired in anger. I enlisted to be a surveyor. A nice safe job where I’d be surveying school yards and roads for moms with station wagons full of kids to drive on -- taking them to those schools. I had it made. Then came Basic Training.

In Basic I learned that my MOS was to be 82C -- Artillery Surveyor. It had the potential of putting me in forward units calling in Artillery. I was not a happy camper and it showed. My less than favorable attitude made me a regular on KP. The first day of KP I got into it with the Mess Sergeant -- I learned about the grease trap. It was a vicious cycle. One day in Basic I was at my duty station (the grease trap) when someone came through the mess hall looking for those that signed up to take the Airborne PT test. Not me, I’d never even been in an airplane and I surely wanted no part in ever jumping out of one. But then they said something that was music to my ears. Those going Airborne had to fall out and go take the test. I threw down my ladle and said, “Me, right here. I’m supposed to be a paratrooper.” I barely passed each segment, but I knew if I failed it was back to the grease trap so I struggled to keep going.

AIT wasn’t a problem, but when I got to jump school I hadn’t got my hair cut in six or eight weeks. You can imagine how that went over with the Company Commander. I didn’t even have the 35¢ for a haircut. The Captain took the money out of his pocket, but never forgot me. The weekend between ground week and tower week I was at my duty station -- the grease trap -- when someone came through asking for those who signed up to take the Special Forces Battery Test. At 5’ 5” and 132 pounds, 18 years old and a slick sleeve private, I knew I was not Special Forces material. But again, someone sang the correct tune. We had to fall out and take the six hour test. I threw down my ladle and said, “Me, right here. I’m supposed to be a Green Beret.” Knowing I was too young, too small, too stupid and too low of a rank, the test was totally unimportant to me. I started to just goof off answering the questions, but soon it became fun. I was having a great time. But no matter. I would not have been allowed to go SF. But hey, it definitely beat the grease trap seven ways from hell.

During tower week I injured myself on the 34’ tower and had to have surgery. A few days later I was sitting around with a bunch of other sick, lame and lazy -- when the Special Forces recruiter entered the ward. We were duly impressed as he walked through the ward looking at the names on the beds. Then he read my name, took one look at me, and horror washed over his face. In obvious disappointment he asked, “Are you Robert Pryor?”

He proceeded to chew me out about the presentation he gave to our Jump School class and how I didn’t listen to him about SF requirements -- yadda -- yadda.” I still wasn’t listening to him. Believing that he figured out that I did not take the test seriously, It was me that looked at him in horror -- I knew they were about to permanently change my MOS to Grease Trap Technician.

One thing led to another and I finally started to pay attention to him. He told me that out of the maybe 300 or so people that took the test with me, I got the second highest score. Then he asked if I was serious about going SF. He said they could get a waiver on all the other requirements. I asked if they had KP in SF. He assured me I’d be too busy for KP. My simple response was, “Where do I sign?” I have not seen a single grease trap from that day to this. Oh sure, one or two unpleasant things happened to me while in SF, but nothing nearly as unpleasant as cleaning a grease trap.

Special Forces Training Group was difficult, to put it mildly. There were a couple of times I felt like quitting. The closest I came was when three other ne’er-do-wells and I got in trouble for something or other. A Cadre member put us in the front leaning rest position as punishment. Being the weakest and sorriest of the lot, my arms eventually started to quiver. The other guys were steady as a rock. I was the first to collapse -- face first into the sand. Knowing I was about to be told my SF career was over, I spit out the mouth full of sand and struggled back into the front leaning rest position. Soon enough, again I fell face first into the sand -- but again I struggled back. Perhaps my third time, one of the other ne’er-do-wells collapsed with me. Rather than continuing to humiliate himself the way I did, he quit. The Cadre Sergeant simply invited the quitter to stand with him. No lecture, no humiliation -- just politeness. The scene repeated itself shortly thereafter and there were two quitters standing with the Cadre. Leaving me to keep eating sand as the other guy held in the front leaning rest -- showing no sign of weakness. I had probably collapsed ten or fifteen times when the Iron Man, whose arms never once even quivered, much less collapsed, stood up and said something disparaging about Special Forces. Again, the Cadre politely invited the guy to stand with him.

As politely as could be the Cadre said to the quitters, “I want you three to look at Pryor. That's what a real Special Forces soldier looks like.” Then he yelled at the other three, “Now you three clean out your rooms and get out of my sight!” Back to being polite he said, “Pryor, as you were.”

I was home! I have had the Special Forces mindset from that day to this. It served me well, especially in Viet Nam.

I graduated from Special Forces Training Group as a 12B -- Special Forces Combat Engineer. From there I was assigned to 3rd Special Forces Group where I cross-trained as an 11F -- Special Forces Operations and Intelligence NCO. I also studied Vietnamese language in the evening. Upon completing those courses, I was sent to 5th Special Forces Group in Viet Nam. I left out of Ft. Lewis on December 19, 1968. I completed the Recondo Course at Nha Trang and was assigned to Detachment A-344 at Bunard on January 19, 1969. Having completed two of the five SF MOSs, completed a language course and on my second SF assignment -- looking much younger than my 19 years of age-- I was a bit of an anachronism. Everybody on my A-Team addressed each other by their first names. I was just “The Kid” or “Demo.” I was the only 12B on the team, so I was indeed the Demo Man. I also served as Junior Intel.

There was one adventure after another during my five months on A-344. I felt so fortunate to even sit down to eat with some of the truly greats in Special Forces, and even more so when I was privileged to stand shoulder to shoulder with them whenever the “fit hit the shan.

There are probably four incidents that really stand out about my brief time in Viet Nam. The first was when I got wounded on April 17, 1969. It was no big deal, but the other American with me ran off and left me. Skip the details but I was ready to set things right if and when I ever found him again. Fortunately for both of us, it took me about an hour and a half to settle a dispute with Sir Charles, patch my wound, and those of a 16 year old unarmed Montagnard boy that was with me. By the time I found CPT Poop-Butt, I decided to let it slide. But don't mistakenly think I forgot.

On May 11, 1969 we received a May-Day from an Armored Personnel Carrier. They were in heavy contact maybe five clicks from our camp. I was in civilian attire, but knew it was not far, so I grabbed a handful of my Montagnard boys, took the Jeep and we headed on up there. Montagnards don’t particularly like Vietnamese, and hated the Viet Cong even more. Sir Charles tried to surrender, but my boys were having nothing to do with that, in spite of my screaming at them to cease fire. The driver of the APC was the only one still alive. We took him back to our Team’s senior medic, who got him patched up and sent him back to his unit -- The Big Red One.

The next crazy incident took place on the night of June 15/16, 1969. I was doing radio relay from the top of Nui Ba Ra. I was doing a regular commo check when I was unable to raise my camp. I was starting to fret as those guys were family -- well, except the one who left me wounded and in contact a couple of months earlier. Soon other people on the net joined me in trying to make commo with Bunard. Then someone appropriately awakened B-Team Detachment Commander LtCol Mearlan ” Pappy” LaMar -- letting him know that we had lost commo with one of the camps under his command. Pappy joined the others and me in frantically trying to make commo with Bunard. After maybe three or four hours of this, Top came on the line with one of his “Top Sergeant Attitude” statements about us getting our panties in a wad. After a brief discussion between Top and Pappy, it was determined that Top just came on radio watch, having relieved somebody who must have slept through radio watch. To make matters worse, the person he relieved just got Top to deal with Pappy, rather than taking it like a man. I got the distinct honor of listing to Pappy give an ass-chewing to Mr. Sleepy-head that would have made Superman cry. But the best of all was yet to come. I got to listen as a certain Captain -- that ran off and left a wounded man while still in contact -- got relieved of command. I loved it!

That put our Executive officer, 1LT John Parda in command. I loved John and would have willingly marched through the Gates of Hell for him. Which brings me to the third thing. On the night of June 19/20 death came calling at our door. There were only four USSF in Camp -- 1LT John Parda, SFC Charles Hinson, SFC Carl Cramer and me. I hate the daring-do BS, but there’s no glossing over certain facts. There were between 100 and 200 uninvited guests trying to acquire Bunard through the right of adverse possession. Obviously, we attempted to contest their claim.

The uninvited guests established squatters rights to the south and east sections of our camp. With a strong offense being the best defense, 1LT Parda determined that one of us needed to leave the inner compound and set things right. As I said, I would walk through the Gates of Hell for that man, so walking through the gates of our compound did not seem to be unreasonable at all. The bottom line was we ejected the squatters and the four of us survived. While out there prosecuting the war, I did not get wounded in the face or in the left arm. That’s easier than mentioning all the places where I did get wounded -- which was everyplace else on my body. I received 30 major wounds and over 200 minor wounds that night, but at least I get to watch the grass grow from the photosynthesis side. The squatters have been forced to watch the grass grow from the nutrient uptake side. Hey, I was a farmer -- we talk like that.

Okay, for the fourth incident. It actually did not happen until maybe ten years after I left Viet Nam. I was a Vet Rep and a veteran came to me with a totally impossible story about how he hurt his back, ankle and started having hearing problems in Viet Nam. The VA kept turning the guy’s claims and appeals down because there was no evidence and they were based on pure BS. Like all wannabe tales, it started with everybody with him when he was injured being dead, so no eye witnesses. But wait, there’s more. His story was that he was rescued by some ten to twelve year old kids that killed all the Commies and took him to some unknown “Green Beret” camp for treatment. That camp’s medic did not forward any clinical notes to the vet's original unit, and that’s why there was nothing in his medical records. Figuring “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he finished up with the biggest wannabe lie to ever come out of the Vietnam War. The child that seemed to lead the Montagnard children was what looked to be a 14 year old “white boy” wearing tennis shoes, a white T-Shirt and bermuda shorts. The vet theorized that perhaps the white boy was the child of French missionaries.

When he was done with his bizarre tale I asked him, “Did this by any chance happen on May 11, 1969?” With total amazement he said that it did indeed happen on that day and asked how I could have possibly known that.

I responded, “I was twenty.”

He said, “I Beg your pardon?”


I told him I was 20 years old, looked young for my age, certainly did not look old enough to be in SF -- and when off duty I sometimes wore shorts, tennis shoes and a T-shirt when just hanging around at my camp.

He sat there speechless with tears slowly trickling down his cheeks as I wrote up the eyewitness account of what happened to him -- how the back of his uniform had been shredded by nearby rocket blasts, he couldn’t walk on his own due to an ankle injury and he had blood trickling out of both ears when I found him. I furnished the VA with the identity of the medic that treated the vet. I copied some pictures I had from Viet Nam, gave VA my VA File Number and folder location for them to use in verifying that I was indeed right there when those events transpired -- and assigned to that unknown “Green Beret” camp. It took the VA all of two weeks to approve the veteran’s disability claim and authorize a few years of back pay.

There are other parts of my story that might amaze. I was medically retired from the Army on November 11, 1969. That’s no big deal, but 81 days after I retired from the Army something really big happened to me. I registered to vote. In spite of all the things I’d been through, prior to that day I was not old enough to vote. In 2004, 35 years after we served together in Viet Nam, my Top Sergeant and I went on a Leaflet Drop to Costa Rica -- the leaflets being dollars spent on the Ticas. Four years after that operation, In July of 2008, I got married to my current wife. Standing at my side as my best man was none other than the Former 1LT John Parda, He accompanied me as I walked through the gates of matrimony. Three years later I was at his side when he marched through the gates of heaven alone. I shall always love that man. I owe my life to him. Probably one of the biggest mistakes the Army ever made was letting John get away at the end of his in initial service commitment. He was such a great leader that he made you want to do something for him, no matter what the odds.

I think it was also in about 2004 I was having dinner with John Parda, Charles Hinson and my son -- Robert Jr. I was giving Hinson a hard time about rescuing me. It had been a foolhardy move on his part, I was alone, had been up to my ass in alligators, no radio, no weapon and no one but Sir Charles had any idea where I was. With still a little shooting going on, I said it was stupid to attempt to try and find me. Hinson agreed, then pointed at Parda. I looked and John was smiling broadly. Charles then told me the rest of the story of my rescue. In the heat of battle, Parda told Hinson to go find me. Wisely, Hinson refused, saying, “You already lost one man, din’t lose another.” At this point I hear Parda start to snicker.

Then Hinson continued: “John told me that he wasn’t asking me, he was telling me to go find you.”

At this point John is laughing out loud. My son and I are wondering what’s so funny. Other patrons in the restaurant are starting to stare at us. Charles continued with how Parda yelled, ”Attention Sergeant, I’m not telling you to go find Pryor.” Then while using a finger to poke Charles in the chest for emphasis, Parda shouted. “I’m giving you a direct order -- GO FIND PRYOR!” Did I ever mention how much I love 1LT John J. Parda?

There were times back at Bunard when I was obviously starting to gnaw the grass a little close. With me being the Camp Engineer, John Parda would tell me to go to Vung Tau, a coastal resort city to pick up an eight penny nail for him so he could use it on some project in his hooch. I'd try to argue that I had plenty of them and could give him one right then and there. He’d clarify his position by saying that he did not want to leave me short by one nail, so I should go get one in Vung Tau -- and take three or four days to make sure I got the right one. Oh, then I got it. I even brought him back a nail. Man, that’s what being brothers in arms is all about.

I never wanted to be in Special Forces, but I am so glad I was.
https://valor.militarytimes.com/hero/5119
MSG Felipe De Leon Brown SGT Robert Foti SP5 Mark Atchison GySgt Thomas Vick