| War and History Fiction posted January 6, 2013 |
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Hearts and Minds: The USMC CAP I Corps 1965
You! Lose the gun.
by Allezw2
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
1
The Combined Action Program was a United States Marine Corps initiative developed during the Vietnam War from 1965 to 1971. It was one of the most effective counterinsurgency tools developed during that conflict. The program affiliated a Marine rifle squad of thirteen men and a U.S. Navy Hospital Corpsman with an existing Vietnamese militia platoon already in, or adjacent to, a rural Vietnamese hamlet in the I Corps, the northernmost province of South Viet Nam. Pronounced Eye Corps in Marine parlance for the similarity of the Roman numeral one and the upper case I in English. These militia platoons typically consisted of village residents too young or too old to be drafted into the Army of the Republic of Viet Nam (ARVN) or the Regional Forces (Dia Phuong Quan).
This combination of American Marines and the Popular Forces militia members was designated as a Combined Action Platoon (CAP). General Krulak used the USN Construction Battalions in myriad civic improvement projects, too. Schools, wells, and roads were most prominent.
Marine Lieutenant General Victor Krulak, the I Corps commander, postulated his spreading ink blot strategy. He believed that each of the CAPs would, by guaranteeing the safety of their village, gradually extend their influence afield far enough to reach other CAP areas. This unification would force the Viet Cong away from the arable lands along the sea coast, where ninety percent of the population lived, and into the central highlands.
The pacification program thus avoided these border areas near Laos and Cambodia, where the Communists were strongest and danger to our troops greatest. This effectively quarantined the insurgents. The villagers no longer suffered Viet Cong intimidation by routine assassination for non-cooperation, assessment of taxes, and impressed recruitment.
As the villager’s gained confidence in their protectors, they became willing to identify the insurgents hiding among them. With their agents promptly taken into custody, interrogated and often summarily executed, the Viet Cong lost their base in these South Vietnamese villages. Lacking access to the villages for food and manpower, the insurgents had to rely on their own resources brought from the far north over the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
I
Than Bu Ko
I Corps
Republic of Viet Nam
14 January 1965
1320 local time
“Hey, Doc.” It was Gunny Howson.
The sides of the aid tent were still raised from the morning sick call and I could see Philpot, Forster and Howson looking outward to the river. They had been sitting in the shade of a palm while finishing their lunch. Now they stood, alert and surveying the landscape about them, their M14s at hand.
I dropped my microscopy assay of stool samples for intestinal parasites to join them.
Forster pointed to the individuals walking slowly toward us along the dike path, past the farmers tending the rice fields who mostly ignored them. One of our militiamen followed a trio with his M1 held nonchalantly across his shoulders. Two of the men supported a third between them, his arms over their shoulders.
Hilliard caught my eye. "More of their for-real-casualties?"
"I think so. That guy in the middle is really dragging."
"Philpot, see anyone behind them?"
"Tran’s the caboose, Gunny. None behind him I can see."
Forster agreed, lowering his binoculars.
"Carrington!" Howson, calling out the SAW gunner.
"Here."
"Cover'em.
“Got’em.”
“Danon, check the perimeter and the militia in place. This may be a sucker play."
Sucker play? I didn't think so. In daylight like this? Not cool. We had lots of firepower to bear on anyone trying it. Neither did I think the man was faking an injury. He tried to lessen the burden on his companions, hobbling along on his left leg, right one bent to clear the ground, dark and hugely swollen. They stopped often when he was spent and had to rest, head down, before continuing. Even at this distance, I could see his face contorted in pain.
Either really in trouble and looking for help. Or really in trouble and a decoy-come-distraction.
Pointing at his men, Howson wordlessly sent Forster and Philpot forward with a two-finger wave. Quietly, the two stepped out, each taking opposite sides of the path, weapons at port arms to avoid showing any direct threat to the approaching men, a gesture consistent with our rules of engagement in the pacification regimen.
The strangers stopped when they saw the Marines walking toward them and remained motionless. At ten meters, the Marines stopped. Both groups surveyed the other for a couple of seconds. Our men, half again the size of the ones they faced and armed to the teeth, had to be intimidating.
Staying clear of the line of fire, Forster approached them from his left. “Raise your hands,” lifting his open left hand above his head, “now.” They carefully lowered their companion to the ground, then straightened to raise their hands above their heads. Mimicking undoing his belt, he ordered the men to drop their fanny and back packs. They complied and Forster cautiously passed by to stand behind them. From there, he patted down the three men for any weapons. A quick check appraised the contents of their packs. He held up utility knives, and unwrapped a couple of packages for appraisal. “Chow,” he called. Finished, he waved to Philpot, "Clear."
"Bring'em in."
Forster tapped the two men on their shoulders and shooed them toward the village. They stooped to pick up their comrade and walked toward us. Tran picked up the weapons and gear and followed, Philpot leading.
“He’s yours, Doc.” Howson said.
The three men stopped and watched as we approached. Assessing the injured man, I could see where a stream of fluid had tracked through the filth down the right leg from inside the shorts. The pant leg was soiled, too. Closer, I could see his clenched jaws, teeth bared in a grimace and the eyes barely open.
Gunshot? Leg or torso?
I knelt before him, his eyes on me, and touched his leg. The spongy flesh sank under the light pressure of my finger tip. He didn’t respond when I touched the leg.
Not good.
His comrades had seemed uncertain of our intentions, maybe ready to resist at first. They relaxed when Cao explained who we were and what we were going to do. I tapped their buddy on the shoulder to get his attention, stooped and lifted the small man in my arms. I felt the fever in the man’s limbs and torso through his clothes.
Perspiration beaded his forehead and ran down his face. His clothing was soaked, too.
That unseen wound, and endemic malarial infection probably. We’ll see.
I set him down on the exam table and undid the shorts to pull them off while Cao removed his shirt. The patient was filthy and stank of the paddies; night soil and necrotic flesh. Of greatest concern was a suppurating puncture wound on the anterior upper thigh, near the hip. It stank of decomposition. The infected tissue oozed fluid.
At least there is still some circulation there.
Turning him onto his side, the puncture wound on the posterior above his knee became evident. It's condition mirrored the other injury.
Missed the femoral, though it must have severed some of the peripherals. Bet it's from a punji stake. Slipped when setting a trap? Or unlucky? These guys smeared them with all kinds of junk to ensure a severe infection. Nothing new there. The Cheyennes and some other Plains Indians used to tease rattlesnakes into striking game livers before letting the organs putrify. Smearing the mess onto their arrows made them a deadly bio-warfare weapon.
Lifting an eyelid, I saw the yellowed sclera.
Jaundice, from hepatitis or liver flukes. He probably has colonies of critters inside eating him alive. Teeth in bad shape; blackened from betel chewing. Breathing hard, too. Ah, little man, you need more than I can do.
Cao was already running the vital signs and making his notations. After the exam, we bathed him before beginning any procedure.
Than Bu Ko
I Corps
Republic of Viet Nam
14 January 1965
1720 local time
"How'd it go, Doc?"
Settling at the table, I put down the tray before answering. “Real bad, Gunny. He needs a medevac. The leg’s gangrenous. I took it off. Should have been done days ago."
"No sweat. We have a resupply coming in tomorrow. You can send him out with the short-timers.
He looked around the mess tent, “Dawson."
"Yeah, Gunny," the radio-telephone operator answered.
"Ring up the boss and tell’em we have one local for a medevac to Vandegrift."
"Toot sweet, " standing to go to the command tent and the radio.
Tuit de suite. Nothing like the French to come up with something like that.
"Thanks. What's with the other two?"
Gunny grinned. "They cooperated, sort of. Like the others after Forster did his routine. We fed'em, interrogated'em, took their pictures and turned’em loose. They're probably back with their people right now."
"Weapons?"
"The knives? U.S. issue. We took’em. They should know by now they can come in unarmed and we'll take care of'em. But if they bring anything in, it's ours. Like all the rest so far, they’re mostly armed with anything they can get their hands on. WWII leftovers, mostly Jap, French, and Brits. Some U.S.."
"Find out anything new."
He shook his head. "They're just laborers and cannon fodder. Local farm boys shanghaied from somewhere in the provinces, maybe north of the DMZ. They’re too scared to say where and none of the people here know them. Tran said their accent’s not local. He tried to talk them into staying. Likely too afraid for their families back wherever if they didn’t come back. Not important anyway."
Near twenty years since the Japanese repatriation and eleven since the Frog debacle at Dienbinphuh. Chiang’s bandits were here, too, until they were chased out. All of them must have left a lot of contraband for the Viet Minh to pass around. Now it's the Cong.
"Summed up, they don't like us. However, your good work last week with those two with shrapnel wounds impressed them. Seems they appreciate your efforts. Upshot is the local Cong will apparently put up with us as long as we don't push them."
"More like you guys bloodied them bad enough that they don't want to tangle with you."
"Sort of, I think. Likely a bit of both. You’re an asset. So, at least, they haven’t tried any more sniping or ambushes like when we first came here."
"Good news, that."
"Yeah. I'm not into ear-counting like some of these yahoos. Live and let live while I'm here."
“As long as they keep out your way?” He grinned and took another bite.
1
The Combined Action Program was a United States Marine Corps initiative developed during the Vietnam War from 1965 to 1971. It was one of the most effective counterinsurgency tools developed during that conflict. The program affiliated a Marine rifle squad of thirteen men and a U.S. Navy Hospital Corpsman with an existing Vietnamese militia platoon already in, or adjacent to, a rural Vietnamese hamlet in the I Corps, the northernmost province of South Viet Nam. Pronounced Eye Corps in Marine parlance for the similarity of the Roman numeral one and the upper case I in English. These militia platoons typically consisted of village residents too young or too old to be drafted into the Army of the Republic of Viet Nam (ARVN) or the Regional Forces (Dia Phuong Quan).
This combination of American Marines and the Popular Forces militia members was designated as a Combined Action Platoon (CAP). General Krulak used the USN Construction Battalions in myriad civic improvement projects, too. Schools, wells, and roads were most prominent.
Marine Lieutenant General Victor Krulak, the I Corps commander, postulated his spreading ink blot strategy. He believed that each of the CAPs would, by guaranteeing the safety of their village, gradually extend their influence afield far enough to reach other CAP areas. This unification would force the Viet Cong away from the arable lands along the sea coast, where ninety percent of the population lived, and into the central highlands.
The pacification program thus avoided these border areas near Laos and Cambodia, where the Communists were strongest and danger to our troops greatest. This effectively quarantined the insurgents. The villagers no longer suffered Viet Cong intimidation by routine assassination for non-cooperation, assessment of taxes, and impressed recruitment.
As the villager’s gained confidence in their protectors, they became willing to identify the insurgents hiding among them. With their agents promptly taken into custody, interrogated and often summarily executed, the Viet Cong lost their base in these South Vietnamese villages. Lacking access to the villages for food and manpower, the insurgents had to rely on their own resources brought from the far north over the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
I
Than Bu Ko
I Corps
Republic of Viet Nam
14 January 1965
1320 local time
“Hey, Doc.” It was Gunny Howson.
The sides of the aid tent were still raised from the morning sick call and I could see Philpot, Forster and Howson looking outward to the river. They had been sitting in the shade of a palm while finishing their lunch. Now they stood, alert and surveying the landscape about them, their M14s at hand.
I dropped my microscopy assay of stool samples for intestinal parasites to join them.
Forster pointed to the individuals walking slowly toward us along the dike path, past the farmers tending the rice fields who mostly ignored them. One of our militiamen followed a trio with his M1 held nonchalantly across his shoulders. Two of the men supported a third between them, his arms over their shoulders.
Hilliard caught my eye. "More of their for-real-casualties?"
"I think so. That guy in the middle is really dragging."
"Philpot, see anyone behind them?"
"Tran’s the caboose, Gunny. None behind him I can see."
Forster agreed, lowering his binoculars.
"Carrington!" Howson, calling out the SAW gunner.
"Here."
"Cover'em.
“Got’em.”
“Danon, check the perimeter and the militia in place. This may be a sucker play."
Sucker play? I didn't think so. In daylight like this? Not cool. We had lots of firepower to bear on anyone trying it. Neither did I think the man was faking an injury. He tried to lessen the burden on his companions, hobbling along on his left leg, right one bent to clear the ground, dark and hugely swollen. They stopped often when he was spent and had to rest, head down, before continuing. Even at this distance, I could see his face contorted in pain.
Either really in trouble and looking for help. Or really in trouble and a decoy-come-distraction.
Pointing at his men, Howson wordlessly sent Forster and Philpot forward with a two-finger wave. Quietly, the two stepped out, each taking opposite sides of the path, weapons at port arms to avoid showing any direct threat to the approaching men, a gesture consistent with our rules of engagement in the pacification regimen.
The strangers stopped when they saw the Marines walking toward them and remained motionless. At ten meters, the Marines stopped. Both groups surveyed the other for a couple of seconds. Our men, half again the size of the ones they faced and armed to the teeth, had to be intimidating.
Staying clear of the line of fire, Forster approached them from his left. “Raise your hands,” lifting his open left hand above his head, “now.” They carefully lowered their companion to the ground, then straightened to raise their hands above their heads. Mimicking undoing his belt, he ordered the men to drop their fanny and back packs. They complied and Forster cautiously passed by to stand behind them. From there, he patted down the three men for any weapons. A quick check appraised the contents of their packs. He held up utility knives, and unwrapped a couple of packages for appraisal. “Chow,” he called. Finished, he waved to Philpot, "Clear."
"Bring'em in."
Forster tapped the two men on their shoulders and shooed them toward the village. They stooped to pick up their comrade and walked toward us. Tran picked up the weapons and gear and followed, Philpot leading.
“He’s yours, Doc.” Howson said.
The three men stopped and watched as we approached. Assessing the injured man, I could see where a stream of fluid had tracked through the filth down the right leg from inside the shorts. The pant leg was soiled, too. Closer, I could see his clenched jaws, teeth bared in a grimace and the eyes barely open.
Gunshot? Leg or torso?
I knelt before him, his eyes on me, and touched his leg. The spongy flesh sank under the light pressure of my finger tip. He didn’t respond when I touched the leg.
Not good.
His comrades had seemed uncertain of our intentions, maybe ready to resist at first. They relaxed when Cao explained who we were and what we were going to do. I tapped their buddy on the shoulder to get his attention, stooped and lifted the small man in my arms. I felt the fever in the man’s limbs and torso through his clothes.
Perspiration beaded his forehead and ran down his face. His clothing was soaked, too.
That unseen wound, and endemic malarial infection probably. We’ll see.
That unseen wound, and endemic malarial infection probably. We’ll see.
I set him down on the exam table and undid the shorts to pull them off while Cao removed his shirt. The patient was filthy and stank of the paddies; night soil and necrotic flesh. Of greatest concern was a suppurating puncture wound on the anterior upper thigh, near the hip. It stank of decomposition. The infected tissue oozed fluid.
At least there is still some circulation there.
Turning him onto his side, the puncture wound on the posterior above his knee became evident. It's condition mirrored the other injury.
Missed the femoral, though it must have severed some of the peripherals. Bet it's from a punji stake. Slipped when setting a trap? Or unlucky? These guys smeared them with all kinds of junk to ensure a severe infection. Nothing new there. The Cheyennes and some other Plains Indians used to tease rattlesnakes into striking game livers before letting the organs putrify. Smearing the mess onto their arrows made them a deadly bio-warfare weapon.
Lifting an eyelid, I saw the yellowed sclera.
Jaundice, from hepatitis or liver flukes. He probably has colonies of critters inside eating him alive. Teeth in bad shape; blackened from betel chewing. Breathing hard, too. Ah, little man, you need more than I can do.
Cao was already running the vital signs and making his notations. After the exam, we bathed him before beginning any procedure.
Than Bu Ko
I Corps
Republic of Viet Nam
14 January 1965
1720 local time
"How'd it go, Doc?"
Settling at the table, I put down the tray before answering. “Real bad, Gunny. He needs a medevac. The leg’s gangrenous. I took it off. Should have been done days ago."
"No sweat. We have a resupply coming in tomorrow. You can send him out with the short-timers.
He looked around the mess tent, “Dawson."
"Yeah, Gunny," the radio-telephone operator answered.
"Ring up the boss and tell’em we have one local for a medevac to Vandegrift."
"Toot sweet, " standing to go to the command tent and the radio.
Tuit de suite. Nothing like the French to come up with something like that.
"Thanks. What's with the other two?"
Gunny grinned. "They cooperated, sort of. Like the others after Forster did his routine. We fed'em, interrogated'em, took their pictures and turned’em loose. They're probably back with their people right now."
"Weapons?"
"The knives? U.S. issue. We took’em. They should know by now they can come in unarmed and we'll take care of'em. But if they bring anything in, it's ours. Like all the rest so far, they’re mostly armed with anything they can get their hands on. WWII leftovers, mostly Jap, French, and Brits. Some U.S.."
"Find out anything new."
He shook his head. "They're just laborers and cannon fodder. Local farm boys shanghaied from somewhere in the provinces, maybe north of the DMZ. They’re too scared to say where and none of the people here know them. Tran said their accent’s not local. He tried to talk them into staying. Likely too afraid for their families back wherever if they didn’t come back. Not important anyway."
Near twenty years since the Japanese repatriation and eleven since the Frog debacle at Dienbinphuh. Chiang’s bandits were here, too, until they were chased out. All of them must have left a lot of contraband for the Viet Minh to pass around. Now it's the Cong.
"Summed up, they don't like us. However, your good work last week with those two with shrapnel wounds impressed them. Seems they appreciate your efforts. Upshot is the local Cong will apparently put up with us as long as we don't push them."
"More like you guys bloodied them bad enough that they don't want to tangle with you."
"Sort of, I think. Likely a bit of both. You’re an asset. So, at least, they haven’t tried any more sniping or ambushes like when we first came here."
"Good news, that."
"Yeah. I'm not into ear-counting like some of these yahoos. Live and let live while I'm here."
“As long as they keep out your way?” He grinned and took another bite.
What might have been. I believe that if Johnson and Westmoreland had not shifted to a war of attrition rather than following General Krulak's initiative and supporting the CAPs throughout South Vietnam, the countryside throughout might have been stabilized by these initiatives. Then the RVN might have survived the corruption of the unpopular, French-trained, Catholic elite who ran the government from the French withdrawal in 1954 until the final debacle, April 30, 1975. The North Vietnamese troops entered government house and pushed the head of government, Big Minh, aside, ignoring his offer to formally surrender the republic.
The Brits were successful in their Malayan counterinsurgency campaign though far less able than the U.S. to prosecute one far from home.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. The Brits were successful in their Malayan counterinsurgency campaign though far less able than the U.S. to prosecute one far from home.
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