Chapter 7

Written By Chas Gerretsen

You asked for an excerpt from my Vietnam Chapter

Becoming a Journalist

I queried Ib Heller, how I could get a press card. "Get a letter of accreditation from a news organization." He said. I submitted my application to the US and South Vietnamese military and waited. About a week later I walked down Tu Do Street on my way to the UPI office, which I used as my mailing address. I noticed an unusual sight: a Caucasian female, dressed in tailored army fatigues, walking by herself.

I followed her and watched as every male turned his head, and stopped to gaze after her. I wondered what she looked like. To my surprise, she turned into the street where UPI was located and entered the office. She was in her early 20s, had a boyish haircut and was very attractive. I introduced myself. She said that her name was Kate Webb.

Hesitantly I said, “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have a brother by the name of Jeremy?”

Her face lit up, “You know my brother?”

“We hung out together in Surfers Paradise, before the police chased us out.”  

“I think I remember that” she said smiling, “Something about leading innocent Queensland girls astray? He sent me a newspaper clipping.”

We talked for a couple of minutes, she told me that she was stringing for UPI and we went our own ways.

 I had one letter, a notice that I could pick up my MAC-V card. (Military Assistance Command-Vietnam) The application had been approved; I now was a member of the International Press Corps. My MAC-V card gave me the field grade rank of Major-Colonel and entitled me to US military transport in the air, on land or sea in the Republic of South Vietnam.

I especially liked my new field-grade rank. In 1963 I had been discharged from the US Army, as a lowly Private E2; now I was the equivalent of an officer. I could not give orders, but I could go almost anywhere I wanted.

I think one of the reasons that the military gave the Press the equivalency of an officer’s rank, was to keep us away from the enlisted men. The officers kept their mouth shut, most of the time anyway; but the grunts couldn’t wait to tell you the shit, which was going on, the fuck-ups committed by the U.S. military. And possibly another reason: if captured by the ‘enemy’, you’d be treated like an officer and not immediately executed. Although I do not think they really cared: the military didn’t like the press.

 A couple of days later, I received my South Vietnamese press card, which would make it easier for me to go out on patrol with the ARVN. I was told by other journalists: “Only join an ARVN operation, if you are sure, that you can outrun them if they encounter the enemy. Wear sneakers,” they advised. “You can also apply for parachute jump training with the ARVN.”

I asked if they knew of anybody, who had done this, they all said, “Sean Flynn.” (Son of the actor Errol Flynn) One afternoon, at the 4 o’clock follies, (later the 5 o‘clock follies) I approached Sean and asked him about jump training. He was quite stoned, I had to ask several times, “What was parachute training like with the South Vietnamese?”

“Training?  Parachute?”

I repeated my question. Finally, he answered, “Never trained.”

“But I heard that you jumped with the South Vietnamese paratroops, in 1966?”

Sean thought. “Yeah I did, but no training.”

“You jumped without any training?” I said disbelievingly.

“Why? You jump, you land.”

I tried to get more information out of him, but he just ignored me; he was in his own world. I applied and was accepted for parachute training. But instead of training together with the Vietnamese soldiers, I was assigned my own paratroop drill sergeant.  I don’t think he enjoyed being delegated as a private instructor to a ‘Round Eye’ journalist.

For five days, one hour a day, I jogged, did pull-ups and push-ups. He showed me how to fall and finally took me to the 60 ft (20 m) high, jump tower: a dilapidated wooden structure, which probably been built by the French before World War II. A long wire cable stretched at an angle from the top of the tower into a square sandbox. I would have to hook onto the cable and slide down into the sand box. As I climbed the wooden structure, it swayed and groaned. I did not want to jump from this deathtrap.

The Sergeant tried to order me, then reason with me. I refused. Finally, he instructed me to continue practicing the fall from a 2-meter-high platform: feet first, side of the knee, side of the buttock, roll on the shoulder. At the end of the hour, on our way off the training field, we passed the jump tower. A group of ARVN trainees were lined up for the jump. We stopped to watch. I could see the tower sway as a soldier climbed. He hooked on and jumped. In slow motion, the tower toppled forward. I later heard that the jumper had broken both legs.

 

My first jump

 Nervously, I followed the soldier in front of me into the aircraft. I was the last one in and would be the first one to jump out.  We sat with our backs against the wall. The engines roared; the pressure pushed us sideways as we gathered speed. The noise in the aircraft was deafening; everything seemed to be rattling. Our first jump would be from 1,300 feet (400 meters). We were instructed to get up, hook on our static lines, and jump when the light above the door turned green. (Just like in the movies)

I was petrified; my heart was beating a mile a minute. Below I could see the earth; it was a long way down. Trembling, holding onto the sides of the exit door, I watched the light. The light turned green; the jump master tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped. A jerk on my harness and I was floating in absolute silence. The fear, tension and utter euphoria of still being alive, as well as the experience of being able to fly, blocked all other sensors. Before I knew it, I hit the ground. This experience was incredible. (Comparable to my first orgasm)

For the next five days, we jumped once a day. After six jumps, we would get our wings: a small tin badge with wings. On the second jump, I was still scared and excited. This time I could hear the wind blowing through the lines of the parachute. I heard kids yelling on the ground, the sound of disappearing aircraft and saw birds flying past. It was mind blowing.

By the sixth jump, I was wondering why the hell I was doing this. To a great extent the excitement was gone, but the fear not altogether. This time, there was more wind. I was again in the first aircraft and the first to jump. This was my luck, as the jumpers from the third aircraft were blown into Than Son Nhut cemetery. Two paratroopers lost their lives; another landed on his knees; it was a disaster. I received my paratroopers’ badge; it was the last time I ever jumped.

 Flying a jet

For a brief moment in my youth, I had wanted to become a jet pilot. In Vietnam, I had the opportunity. I applied to join the US Air Force on a bombing run. I reported to the orderly room and was introduced to a Colonel.  He was in charge of four, two-seater fighter jets on a mission to bomb a village. While waiting, I took a picture of the ground crew loading the air craft with tubes of cluster bombs.

One of them put up his hand blocking the shot. “You’re not allowed to photograph the munitions.”

I was handed a flight suit and after climbing into the cockpit, was given instructions, in case we were hit by ground fire; how to use the ejector seat. Regretfully, they did not tell me how to lower my seat and when the pilot pulled the canopy down it touched my helmet. I didn’t think anything of it; I had to sit slightly hunched forward. I was sitting in the co- pilot seat. We were in contact through the radios in our helmets. I could hear the other pilots talking to each other. When we reached the target area, I was informed that we would make several passes: first to drop the bombs and afterwards to strafe the village with machine gun fire.

I got ready with my Minox-B camera. We dove towards the ground; all I could see were treetops and then we soared into the sky again. There was only one problem, since I had to lean forward because I was too tall in the seat; gravity pulled my upper body down, my head below my knees. With all my strength I tried to sit up, but it was useless; the pull of the g-force was too strong.

I was able to sit up again when we reached our apex. And then we went down again and up, and it started all over again. Finally, the mission over, we headed home; I was exhausted and breezed a sigh of relief. The Colonel asked me how I felt, “I’m still alive,” I said.

He relayed my condition to the other pilots. I could hear their laughter. I realized, that sitting in the cockpit of this multi-million-dollar machine, I was as far removed from the carnage, which we had caused down below, as if I had been sitting in front of a television set.

“You want to fly?”  

 I looked at him, “Me, fly?”

“Take a hold of the stick, you want to go left, push it to the left, want to go right, push it to the right and the same for up-and-down.”  

“What do I do with the foot paddles?” I said.

“They are mainly used during landing.” For the next five minutes I carefully maneuvered the aircraft up, down and sideways. The Colonel tried to lift my spirits by announcing to the other pilots: "Now the journalist is flying." Or did he say it to warn them?

Driving a go-cart was more exciting, apart from the fact that this go-cart was doing around 400 miles an hour. After we landed, I kind of stumbled down the steps, totally worn out. And was told that I’d used up nearly all my oxygen.

The mission had taken a little over an hour, how many had they killed, women, children?  While I stood there, recuperating, getting as much air in my lungs as I could, I listened to the friendly ribbing from the ground crew. “Look at that journalist, the Colonel is twice his age but now looks younger than him.” No, flying a combat jet was not for me.

 

Dana Stone

The next day I hopped on a C130 military flight to Danang, I shared the belly of the airplane with approximately 50 other passengers: military personnel, civilians with bags and suitcases and Vietnamese with their bundles. The smell of Nuoc-Mam was heavy in the hot, confined cargo area of the transport aircraft; several of the Americans were loudly complaining about the ‘gooks’ and their stinking fish sauce.

The Danang airbase covered a huge area and was home to the US Air Force, Marine Corps and Army. Without much trouble, I found myself a ride to the Danang Press Center, managed by the US Marines. The road from the airbase was lined with shanties; they were built with sheet metal, imprinted with the Budweiser and other beer logos. Cardboard signs in English, advertised services available to GI’s, from tailors to massages.

We crossed the bridge over the Han River. In the middle of the bridge, two lonely ARVN soldiers took potshots at anything that floated past. We stopped at the Press Center: a motel-bar-restaurant, turned into a ‘Home away from Home’ for the International Press. I registered in the orderly room and found the quarters assigned to the wire services; six single beds next to one another. Metal lockers, for personal belongings, lined one wall. Above one bed someone had scratched into the wall, the WW2 slogan, “KILROY WAS HERE”.

There was only one ‘round eye’ sitting at the bar; I sat down next to him and introduced myself.

Dana Stone was short, stocky and wore glasses. We got along right away and over a few drinks, Dana told me how he became a photographer.

He and his wife, Louise, had been in the Peace Corps in the Philippines. In 1965, when it was time for them to leave, they decided to visit Vietnam. They stopped in Hong Kong, where Dana bought a Nikonos 35 mm camera; not knowing that it was an underwater camera. He also didn’t know how to load it with film. Once they arrived in Vietnam he met Sean Flynn, who showed him.

The next morning, at 05:30 hrs, Dana shook me awake. “Let’s go.”

Getting dressed, I asked, “Where are we going?”

“To the hospital helipad, from there we'll take a medivac to wherever the action is.”

Excited, I followed him; a Jeep was waiting to take us to the hospital. It was just getting light when we lifted off. Apparently, a company of the first Marine division had been ambushed and there were wounded waiting to be evacuated.

We circled above the Landing Zone; there was still a firefight going on down below. After about 5 minutes, we landed onto a newly created LZ. The trees had been cut down with C4 explocives, making space for the helicopters. The crew chief, the flight medic, Dana and I jumped out.

We took some pictures of the wounded being loaded into the dust-off.  I felt silly taking pictures with the Minox-B camera, knowing that the quality was unusable for publication. Then we followed the troops into the jungle.

Dana advised me what not to do while out on patrol. I had run ahead of the column, to take some pictures as the troops were moving past me. When he caught up with me, he said, “The camera doesn’t know if it is the first or the twentieth soldier you’re photographing. Don’t be the point man and don’t get off the trail; you don’t want to be the one to find the mines, punji sticks or tripwires.”

Around dusk we stopped, soon we heard the ‘whop, whop, whop’ of approaching re-supply helicopters. They unloaded ammunition, C-rations, water, milk and gallon-sized cardboard containers of ice-cream. We climbed aboard the now empty ‘Slick’ and were on our way back to Danang. Forty-five minutes later, after a hot shower, we were in the air-conditioned restaurant of the Press Center, enjoying a steak and a cold beer. It was almost like having a 9-to-5 job; except more exciting. The next day Dana went back to Saigon to be with Louise, his wife..

The following month was a blur: in and out of helicopters, different base camps, different firefights and a lot of boredom in between. Survival, I found out, is to a great extent, a matter of luck and experience. You lie on your stomach taking cover behind a concrete road sign which reads ‘Hue 7 km,’ suddenly you get showered with concrete and you discover that the concrete block is hollow and not a good place to hide behind.

After a while you somehow sense, that you’re standing in the wrong spot and you move and survive. Most of the things, I’d learned in the movies, were wrong. Military bullets go through trees and cars.

Slowly and surely, you gain experience and if you’re lucky, a sixth sense. One night, at a forward base camp, I woke up around 4 am, with the strong need to go to the john, something most unusual for me at that hour of the night. I got up and while in the toilet, Charlie lobbed a few mortar rounds at the camp. When I got back to my bunk, there was a large hole where my body would have been.

Chas Gerretsen https://chasgerretsen.com