These are anecdotal in nature rather than stories but all true and are
somewhat of a hoot.
When Bravo Company was in Binh Phouc, the Delta's answer to Vegas and
Monte Carlo with its vibrant night life and world-class cuisine, someone took
it upon themselves to volunteer us to pull bunker duty at another
basecamp. The name of the basecamp is either forgotten or I didn't give a shit back
then what it was. They took a small group of us and our handful of troops
was headed by Sgt. Allen Brunt. Allen was a very savvy grunt and a typical
New Jersey lad that did not waste words.
During those days of our youth, we were constantly pulling ambush
patrols or going on search and destroy missions. Towards the end of 1968, I don't
think they called them search and destroy missions but changed the term into
something more acceptable for the public consumption.
When we arrived at this basecamp, we were beat, we were dirty, guys
needed shaves, and we were definitely not happy. We arrived there at night and
right before we went out to the bunkers, a REMF Lt. Colonel accosted us. He
looked at us and checked us out, head-to-foot, and said in a loud exaggerated
tone of voice.
"YOU MEN ARE FROM THE SECOND OF THE FORTY-SEVENTH? WHY, YOU LOOK LIKE
YOU'VE BEEN IN THE FIELD FOR A MONTH!"
Allen looked at this clown for a second and said:
"WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK WE'VE BEEN YOU, FUCKING ASSHOLE!"
We all laughed and walked away. The Lt. Colonel just stood there and
sputtered and reflecting back on that incident, it was just as well
that he stayed in place. You can never tell about accidental discharges.
We were still at the old basecamp, Bearcat, when this took place. It
happened sometime in early 1968. The first platoon got tagged to pull perimeter
guard for an artillery unit that was located off Highway 15. It was my turn
to sit at Ma Deuce and that I did. An officer appeared with what may have been
either another officer, high-ranking EM, or perhaps his babysitter. He
told me to stay alert (good idea since the redlegs were all sleeping in
their positions) because Intelligence (when he said that word I knew my ears
would be assualted with foolishness and I was not disappointed). In the
appropriate, dramatic tone of voice he informed me that I should stay
alert because Intelligence reported there were two battalions to the east,
battalions to the west, the north and the fucking south. Altogether, I
do believe he at least ten battalions in all directions. I looked in his
direction and said, "if there are that many battalions in the area,
don't worry. They can walk in and take this place." With that, he went on to
the next position with his tidings of doom.
PAW TO HAND--A GRIPPING ACCOUNT
We were pulling ops at a FSB outside of a rubber plantation. This was
at the same time when we lost Norman James Erbland. Someone in the redlegs had
a pet monkey and this monkey had a very bad habit of jumping on peoples'
backs and putting its paws around their necks.
One day the monkey could not be found. Theories abounded. Perhaps the
monkey defected to the other side. Perhaps the monkey went AWOL and shacked up
with one of the beautiful women that serviced the company. No one knew (or
was not talking). Time went on and the monkey never reappeared. One day some
sandbags had to be removed and underneath a sandbag were the remains of a badly
decomposed simian. The mystery was solved. During its last night in
this earthly realm, it must have jumped on the back of someone who
instinctively killed it or did so for payback. I never saw another pet monkey.
submitted by Mr. J. Driessler 4/24/01