THE THINGS WE DO TO WIN A WAR
By Maj. Gen. Jerry R. Curry (Ret'd)
CurryforAmerica.com
On
Upon arrival in
Our airplanes were the dependable Cessna L-19s,
small two-seaters with high wings, powered by a
single six-cylinder air-cooled engine. Our route of
flight from
At Hue-Phu-Bai we landed and as I stepped down from
the Cessna’s cockpit was greeted by Lieutenant
Colonel “Rough House” Taylor, commander of the Third
Battalion, Fourth Marines. He was five-ten,
sandy-haired, the oldest Marine battalion commander
in
“Welcome to Phu-Bai,” he grunted. “The front lines
are about a hundred yards in that direction. Dig
your foxholes from that clump of trees around to the
dry stream bed over there.” Squinting into the sun,
he gestured with a big knuckled forefinger. “My
rules of engagement are simple; anything that moves
outside the barbed wire after dark gets shot. Any
questions?”
“No, Sir.”
“Then I suggest you all stay put once the sun goes
down. When you get settled, come see me. There’s a
lot talk about.” I saluted; he returned my salute
and stomped off.
The first operational surveillance mission was flown
the next day. Aircraft averaged 120 hours of flight
time a month for the first six months of flight
operations. This was directly attributable to Chief
Warrant Officer Don Behny our maintenance
officer. But there is more to winning wars than
equipment readiness.
Mr. Ngo, the Vietnamese civilian airfield manager,
was a case in point. He looked more like a mystic
than a Vietnamese bureaucrat. Something had gone
wrong in the construction of his body. His bottom
half was too long and his top half too short. He
seemed to have been cut in half at the waist and
mismatched in reassembly.
Chief Behny and I set up a visit with Mr. Ngo
because our airplanes sorely needed more ramp
parking space. They were jammed so close together
that the explosion of a single mortar round would
have damaged or destroyed several aircraft.
Mr. Ngo graciously brewed us tea. “I much prefer
coffee,” he said, “but it is much too expensive.”
I made a mental note of his request and we sat and
drank tea with him, talked about the monsoon season,
the area’s 121 inch average rainfall, our children
and how lovely
When he could no longer postpone discussing the
purpose of our visit, he fetched a blueprint out of
a rickety wooden wall cabinet. On it were the
location of the runway, utility lines, the limited
airport parking ramp, and other buildings, roads
plus technical information.
Smiling obliquely he said, “Major Curry, the area
you request for your airplanes is quite difficult.
As you can see here on the paper there is a house
located right in the middle of the area. Notice the
area is marked ‘Vietnamese government property’.”
I nodded, “Yes, but the house is dilapidated and a
strong wind would blow it down.”
Ignoring my comments he continued, “Of Course I will
forward your request to the Saigon Government. You
understand that it will take one or two years to get
an answer?
Years before, when I had been an advisor in
I followed this statement of fact by standing and
bowing. Paling, Mr. Ngo stood and bowed in return.
Chief Behny and I departed. I don’t know where the
people and their belongings went, but at first light
next morning they were gone. So Rough House Taylor’s
bulldozers clanked into position and started
construction of the badly needed aircraft parking
ramp.
Three months later I received a request from Mr. Ngo
asking me to again come and visit him. Our meeting
started with the usual bowing and tea brewing ritual
and once the pleasantries were over, Ngo took a new
blueprint out of the old rickety cabinet and proudly
unrolled it on top of a table. Major Curry, this
came in today from
On the new blueprint of the airfield was an enclosed
area with hatched lines and words saying that the
aircraft parking area we had confiscated was now
designated as U.S. Government property. Bowing I
said, “Mr. Ngo, it is always a pleasure to do
business with you. Rest assured that the U.S.
Government deeply appreciates your efforts on its
behalf.”
When I got back to the 220th, I called in my Mess Sergeant, Pablo Sandoval, and had him take two five-pound cans of coffee over to Mr. Ngo’s office.