Master Chief (27 page)

“The only thing I have that may relieve your symptoms is epinephrine. Have you ever been given a shot of it before?” the doc asked me.

I assured him that I indeed had been twice injected when I was blessed with a severe reaction from eating mangoes (sumac family) while attending the Jungle Warfare School
in Panama, and prior to that in Da Nang, Vietnam, from eating Philippine mangoes. Without further ado, the doc had me lie down on a table and injected me with the adrenal hormone for the third time. As in Panama and Da Nang, my heart raced madly for approximately five minutes, until the effects of the shot gradually tapered off. Within an hour the stinging and burning were declining, and by the next morning I was ready to hit the deck running.

On January nineteenth our five-man class graduated, and Bruce Keyston and I continued on to the U.S. Army Chemical School at Fort McClellan, Alabama, for the next two weeks. During the course, ol’ Murphy managed to get to me again when I came into contact with contaminated gas-mask straps—mustard gas. The end result was a huge bubble that formed on the back of my head and neck that took several days to disappear. I was beginning to feel like the hunchback of Notre Dame.

When I went to sick bay, one of the Chemical School doctors seemed amused and commented, “I haven’t seen one of these in a long time.” Another walked up and said, “That’s the first one of those I’ve ever seen.” By the time the two doctors had poked fun at me, mused at the bubble, and placed a large bandage over the obnoxious mess, I was beginning to get a persecution complex. Ever so slowly I began to understand why BM3 Cleem—one of my UDT Training Class 36 classmates—exclaimed, “Why me, Lord? Why me, all the time?” when our UDT training instructors rained various forms of hell upon our heads.

In late February, Bruce, PHC Wyeth Heiliger, and I began our twenty-six weeks of basic Explosive Ordnance Disposal School at Indian Head, Maryland. Commander Moody was the CO of the school during the first couple of months, until my old SEAL Team 1 CO, Commander Dave Schaible, relieved him.

During the first several weeks, the three of us spent
much of our time crawling around on the bottom of the Potomac River with the MK-V deep sea diving rig and the Jack Brown shallow-water system, searching and working on underwater projects. All of our MK-VI scuba diving was done in the school’s twenty-four-foot-deep swimming pool. After our diving phase, we spent several weeks studying underwater ordnance—mostly mines and torpedoes—including underwater reconnaissance and practical application of their RSPs (Render Safe Procedures). It was one of the most difficult phases of the school, and also one of the most interesting.

The EOD School’s curriculum and standards seldom left students with free time during the week. We generally spent evenings at the school studying, even occasionally Saturdays, and nearly always Sundays. During the mechanical and electric fuse phase, I reported to the school by 0600 hours and studied until muster at 0730. I was amazed at how much information the school tried to cram into our heads. Sadly, my instructor’s attempts at shoving a quart’s worth of information into my pint-sized brain were not entirely successful.

In spite of the nervous twitch I developed while attending the school, there were good times to be had, assuming one was creative. Every afternoon after chow, my good friend Sergeant Les McGhee (Marine EOD student) and I purged ourselves of our anger and frustration during our rigorous PT and run. Because I didn’t have my truck with me while attending the EOD courses, I spent most of my weekends searching for old bottles along the banks of the Potomac River and dreamed of more exotic activities after my return to SEAL Team 1. I spent one Saturday in Washington, D.C., visiting museums and drinking a couple of Heinekens at Bassins on Pennsylvania Avenue. The sidewalk tables and chairs reminded me of the Continental Hotel, which was across the street from the old
opera house, on Tu Do Street in Saigon. Another weekend I went with PO1 Ken Peck (SEAL Team 2) to Little Creek, Virginia, to visit with the East Coast UDT/SEALs. I especially enjoyed visiting with PO1 Drady again. We had operated together on Dung Island in January 1968, when he was with Demo Dick Marcinko’s platoon and I was with Lieutenant Van Heertum’s dysfunctional platoon (see
Death in the Jungle)
.

On April ninth I was finally promoted to chief petty officer with two other squids after enduring many trials and tribulations throughout the day and surviving the chief’s initiation at the small CPO club that afternoon.

Earlier that morning I was given a booklet and was told to memorize its contents NLT (no later than) that afternoon. It was titled “The Beliefs and Characteristics of a Chief Petty Officer.” I was also given a “Charge Book” to carry with me during my classes that was attached to twenty pounds of diving weights to ensure that I wouldn’t lose it.

The contents of the “Beliefs and Characteristics of a Chief Petty Officer” were as follows:

The contents of the “Charge Book” read as follows:

This is your charge book. It is important to your well-being and future financial position. Before you reach the exalted position of Chief Petty Officer, you must go through many trials and tribulations. Your successful completion will be a major endorsement of your ability to survive under adverse conditions. For the duration of this traditional day, the following rules must be carefully observed:

Toward the end of that afternoon at the CPO Club, Commander Dave Schaible was given the honor of being the judge. After I and two others were forced to endure the final devilment of Captain Schaible’s judgments, we were awarded our CPO hats.

On July 19, 1973, I graduated from EOD School and after saying farewell to Captain Dave Schaible and many of my friends, I made hot tracks for the Silver Strand on the following day. Because I was returning to SEAL Team 1—a combat unit that was subject to capture—I wasn’t allowed to attend the highly secret eight-week nuclear weapons course. Frankly, I wasn’t disappointed.

Interestingly, the cost for me to attend the EOD nine-month course was eight hundred dollars. While I was assigned to SEAL Team 1 and UDT-12, I drew demolition and jump hazardous-duty pay of $110 a month. However, I had to take a reduction in pay because Navy regulations forbid trainees to draw diving pay—which meant that I forfeited $110 per month—at Key West, and was only allowed to draw diving or demolition pay (hazardous-duty pay) at Indian Head. All Navy EOD trainees were eligible to draw diving pay at sixty-five dollars a month versus fifty-five dollars for demolition pay (Army, Air Force, and Marine Corps).

Once I had reported back aboard SEAL Team 1, my jump and demolition hazardous-duty pay was reinstated and I was assigned to Alfa Platoon. My platoon commander
was CWO3 James “Jim” Lake, who had previously served as an EOD technician. Temporarily, I was to wear two hats: platoon chief and the assistant platoon commander.

Gunner Lake was not only an excellent platoon commander overall, but he also understood and believed in the chain of command. Gunner was a rarity among SpecWar officers after the Vietnam War in that he applied the leadership principles of organize, prioritize, motivate, delegate, and supervise through his platoon chief. CWO3 Lake never interfered with, subverted, or coveted the platoon chief’s authority with the men. Sadly, during the early peacetime years of the 1970s, SEAL platoon officers of Gunner Lake’s caliber were always sought, but seldom found. A few years later I had one of my platoon commanders tell me in a fit of rage and in front of the platoon, “You don’t have to think, Chief—all you have to do is do what I tell you!” So much for the chain of command and the proven leadership principles of organize, prioritize, motivate, delegate, and supervise.

For the first few weeks, Alfa Platoon was kept busy training Beach Master Unit 1 personnel in basic defensive tactics and weapons training at Camp Kerrey, located at the foot of the Chocolate Mountains, on the Navy Bombing Range near the Coachella Canal’s Siphon 10.

Afterward, we traveled to the Naval Air Station near Fallon, Nevada, for five separate trips of a week in duration working with Lieutenant Commander Ritz and Senior Chief Renea LaMarsch in developing techniques relative to combined Airborne/SEAL SAR (Search and Rescue) concepts. The mock operations took place at an altitude of seven thousand feet twenty miles or so from the NAS, near the site of the first underground hydrogen bomb detonation. The basic scheme required Alfa Platoon to rescue a downed pilot before the token North Vietnamese military forces could capture him. The SAR
training exercise goals were to: (1) develop communications procedures between the SEAL platoon, the downed pilot, and the aircraft On Scene Commander (OSC); (2) develop a unique, simple code system of reference points, time, azimuths, and distances based on previous experiences in Southeast Asia to guide us (SEALs) to the pilot; and (3) familiarize us with calling in night, fixed-wing strafing and bombing support through the OSC.

Senior Chief LaMarsch was responsible for organizing and leading his token Communist henchmen (SERE cadre) and for preventing our successful rescue of the downed pilot. As I was to find out, my half-frog, half-Injun (LaMarsch) adversary not only played by Communist rules, but added a few of his own.

Our first pilot rescue mission took place that October on a pitch-black night at an altitude of approximately seven thousand feet. The weather was cloudy, cold, and windy, with occasional snow flurries obstructing the visual reconnaissance of our adversaries with starlight scopes. We were finally able to work out the exact location of our pilots’ hideout using our simple code system for azimuths, distances, and time frames with the OSC’s aircraft. Occasionally, we had to coordinate with the pilot through the OSC because of communications problems. After our initial radio communication and authentication with the downed pilot, we moved one kilometer toward his location for the rescue. Much to our chagrin, “Black Jack” LaMarsch was sitting arrogantly aboard a small tank that was no more than a hundred meters from the downed pilot. It was easy to deduce that this was a setup—our “Communists” had surrounded the downed pilot and were waiting patiently for us. I bet they even have hot coffee, I thought.

After Gunner Lake and I discussed the obvious setup, we decided we would play our own dirty game. First Squad would make a direct attack on the tank to draw
Black Jack’s goons away from the pilot while my squad (2nd) sprinted toward the pilot’s position for the rescue during the firefight. What the token Commies didn’t know was that we had a hundred or so artillery and grenade simulators plus a few CS grenades. (Imagine that!)

After I had signaled Gunner with two breaks of squelch on the radio—meaning that 2nd Squad was in place and observing him through our starlight scope—1st Squad made a standard frontal assault using only 5.56mm and 7.62mm blanks and smoke grenades until they were close enough to see the whites of their enemies’ eyes. From that point forward Lake and crew cast numerous simulators into the midst of the enemy’s warm potholes, spilling their hot coffee.

Initially, the skirmish was uninteresting until the artillery and grenade simulators began to detonate on and around the tank with brilliant flashes and loud kabooms. Moreover, when the CS gas floated amidst the Commies, the tank was immediately put into reverse and started a rapid retreat behind small bodies running in disarray up the hill to escape the explosions and CS gas. Gunner Lake and his warriors continued to pursue them up the mountainside until the tank threw a track and its chicken crew abandoned ship. In the meantime, 2nd Squad successfully rescued the pilot without firing a shot.

Later, at the Chiefs’ club, Black Jack LaMarsch and cadre and Alfa Platoon each celebrated the training operation in their own way. As they rubbed their bloodshot eyes, LaMarsch and crew lamented the loss of their tank but rejoiced in their miraculous escape from the simulators and CS gas. On the other hand, we celebrated the successful rescue of our pilot. It’s always good to be the winner, I thought as I slapped the sturdily built Black Jack on the shoulder and said, “It’s good to be humbled, huh, Senior Chief?” I could tell by the look in his eyes that the war wasn’t over yet. And during the following four exercises,
that proved to be the case. Senior Chief LaMarsch and men were always worthy opponents and were responsible not only for making the exercises interesting, but also for challenging us and forcing us to perform at our best.