Read Online 15 Months in SOG by Thom Nicholson - Free Book Online

villagers.
    After the crowd passed by, we climbed up the log steps. I asked Pham, “Is your father chief of the village?”
    With a shy bob of his head, Pham indicated yes. He then told us how the tribe had arrived there. “We once lived many miles over there.” He pointed to the mountains in the west, in northern Laos. “My village chose to fight with the Americans from many years ago. Before you ever came to South Vietnam. When your soldiers left, my father moved across the border to the Special Forces camp at Lang Vei. We fought there when it was overrun last year. Then we move here to Bon Hai, and I join Special Forces army, and now fight for you,
Dai Uy
Nicholson.”
    Sergeant Fischer had told me the story. When the camp at Lang Vei fell to a determined assault by North Vietnamese soldiers in February of ’68, what was left of the villagers had moved on to Khe Sanh. Then, the NVA attacked the Marines there, and the villagers were forced on to this place. Now, the remnants of the once-proud people were trying to stay alive by growing what little would flourish in the poor soil andtaking handouts from U.S. AID (Agency for International Development) workers. They made what money they could by renting their sons to the American Special Forces as mercenaries.
    Pham and the other Yard soldiers soon had their pants and shoes off, replacing them with loincloths and flip-flops, like the rest of the men in the village. When the old chief got back, Pham introduced us to him, his mother, his two younger sisters, and a small brother. The females had all put on blouses, which none were wearing when we arrived. I suppose they had experienced the reaction of Americans to bare breasts. Only a few very old women stayed in custom and left their breasts bare.
    Every woman over sixteen had her two front teeth filed off flush with their gums, making them look, to me at least, like aborigine vampires. Everyone, man and woman, chewed betel nut, which colored their teeth jet black and made their lips and tongues crimson red. Their feet were as wide as they were long, with splayed toes and horny soles; more than likely none had ever worn shoes. Still, the women had a natural beauty and grace and were delighted to see Pham and welcome us to their home.
    Pham quickly presented loincloths to me and my comrades, which we reluctantly put on. Our white legs caused many a giggle among the brown-skinned locals, but we endured the embarrassment out of respect for their culture and in the cause of good relationships, just as our training back in the States had emphasized.
    With Pham’s help, I made my pitch for new recruits, and the old chief promised ten. At Pham’s nod, I passed over the VN bounty, about fifty thousand Vietnamese piasters. The official exchange rate made the transaction worth about fifty dollars in U.S. money. It certainly didn’t seem like much for their sons, but times were hard and lives cheap in South Vietnam in those days. The chief promised to have the “volunteers” ready for pickup when we left, and we concluded our business.
    “Now village will sacrifice cow and have big feast,” Pham announced with a grin. The tall Montagnard boy led us to the village square, for want of a better term, where one of the cows we delivered was staked out, stoically awaiting its fate. The entire village, save for the home in mourning, was there. The people surrounded the cow, the men closest, then the women and children intermixed. By the time everyone had assembled, it made quite a crowd.
    The old chief stepped out and made a welcoming speech to us and had all of us Americans led to small stools next to where he would sit. Several men carried out huge clay pots, a green banana leaf tied over the top of each one. These were set around the circle formed by the assembled villagers.
    “What’s that?” I whispered to Sergeant Fischer. I watched uneasily as the top covers were removed and buckets of cool spring water poured into the wide