How the 507th. came to be the FIRST, and initially ONLY, TAC Comm/Con Group in Vietnam

I think it was in the first week of September, 1961 - that rainy night when we tore the CRP down. Several of us were sitting in Al's Bar, off the four-lane to Augusta , GA. While estimating how much more Al would allow us to pad our bar tab, Tommy Farr roared up and slid sideways in the gravel parking lot, came to a stop, lept out of his 57 Chevy, and ran in to tell us the bad news. There was a General Recall and we were to proceed to Fort Gordon posthaste. Since they were always running those practice alerts and general recalls, we were not in any special hurry to show up; the first one's there got stuck on guard mount for the duration. About an hour later, Tommy Hall, who knew we were at Al's, called the bar and told us "This recall is for real." and that there were a lot of wheels running around and shouting orders. So we drank up and moseyed on out to the Fort.

As soon as we pulled up, the Chief of Maintenance ran up and shouted "Have you seen Andrews?", Alan Andrews being one of the radar maintenance troops. After a while it became clear why their concern for the whereabouts of Andrews was an issue. It seemed that the special tools needed to disassemble the MPS-11, were last seen in the trunk of Andrews' car. When his running partner, whom I shall not name, alluded to the fact that Andrews had pawned the tools to buy a new tire after a blow-out over at Aiken, SC., The Captain (normally an easy going, jovial individual) was quite red in the face. The nameless one, who knew where the pawn shop was located, took the Capt. to the police station in Aiken to find out where the pawnbroker lived. They persuaded the little old Jewish guy to get out of bed, and went down and redeemed the pawned tools. By the time they got back, some one had figured out how to take the sail down without the special tools.

But there was something else about this recall that perked up our ears. They had a professional photographer set up in the Orderly Room, and he wanted our pictures in civilian clothes. After taking all our pictures, one of the officers went to Bush Field where a jet was waiting for him. He flew to Washington, DC where somebody at the State Department worked the rest of the night issuing Official American Passports for us. In the meantime, we had the entire CRP packed on trucks and were ready to roll. Then someone came around and asked us if we had enough civilian clothes to last six months. Those who said "yes" were given $200.00; the others were taken downtown to the Sears department store, where a group of managers were on hand to issue clothes. About daylight , we moved out in a convoy for Shaw AFB, where every C-124 in the Air Force, it seemed, was parked on the flight line. We loaded the trucks, vans, generators, tents and what have you, onto those planes and then went to get into the CASF (Compost Air Strike Force, for those of you that have forgotten) processing line. They had medics with every size needle in creation, jabbing at you from every angle. The one that I remember best was that Gamma Globulin shot in the buttocks. The amount of injection varied according to your body weight, and I was a fair-sized lad. This processing line varied somewhat from all the other deployments that I had been on. I was concerned when I saw that every one had to be interviewed by the chaplain, but was even more concerned when they had someone from the JAG Office filling out a Last Will and Testament for each us. After some fanfare and milling around, they loaded the bunch of us onto an old C-121, and the 507th Commander came aboard and bid us an emotional farewell.

No one had yet told us where the hell we were going. But, being the politically astute and well read news junkie that I have always been, I knew where we were going. I remember telling several people where I thought we were going and not one of them had ever heard of Viet Nam, let alone Siagon. We were told that when we got to Clark Air Base we would be briefed, and that the deployment was classified Secret. I think I slept most of the way to Clark. We refueled at George Air Base, California; Hickam AFB, HI; Wake Island; Agana Naval Air Base, Guam; and finally Clark AFB, in the Philippines. We were put into transit quarters of a sort (more like chicken coops) and again warned to tell no one about our deployment. The next day at about ten in the morning, they herded us into the base theater, where several wheels from 13th Air Force got up and told us what an important mission were engaged in, and that it must remain secret until we got there. Then some Col. from 13th AF Intelligence Office stood in front of us and said that, since the theatre was not secure, we would be further briefed on the plane. He then made the mistake of asking if there were any questions. The NAMELESS ONE, of whom money was always a prime concern, stood up and said in a loud voice, "COL., WHEN WE GET TO SAIGON, ARE WE GOING TO GET PAID?"

To backtrack just a little, and mention the fate of Andrews - When he was found with his lady friend in Aiken, and brought to the Fort, then to Shaw (where he was handed a set of six month TDY orders), he promptly told them that he had only fifty days left on his hitch. Not only him, but about half the gang that they were trying to process at Shaw had less than six months to go. This caused much finger-pointing and blame-laying among the various 507th staff officers, so a call went out to the 728th and 729th for "volunteers". The reason that most of the guys were at Fort Gordon was that they were too short to send to Boca Chica or Homestead. I myself had just gotten in from a ninety day tour at Homestead. I will save that story for another time. Anyway, that's why some of the guys trickled into Saigon on commercial flights.

I will never forget my first glimpse of Saigon. The C-121 parked by the civilian terminal, and disgorged our motley crew of "civilians" carrying AR-15s and all sporting crew cuts. We were herded onto buses and taken to the Majestic Hotel. A very fine French Colonial hotel with a four star restaurant and lounge on the roof, overlooking the Saigon River.

Our per diem was only 16.00 dollars a day, but, at 120 piastres to the dollar, you were hard pressed to give away 16 bucks a day. Plus, there was no limit on how many bottles of Remy Martin or packs of Winston's or Salem's you could buy at the Navy Exchange. It has been alleged that some members of our group stooped low enough as to supplement their per diem and regular pay by engaging in commerce with the natives. There were even those among us who sought out money changers at other than official places, to exchange their dollars for piastres at a black market rate. It was said of our elevator operators in the Majestic, that if you were alone and held up some green money on your journey upstairs, the elevator would stop between floors so that a transaction could be made , free from critical eyes.

Part II - The REAL story

The Majestic Hotel most likely never recovered from the shock of our crew under their roof. Their restaurant was very good, even if their chefs were trained in the French tradition. Their menu was haute cuisine; just a little on the pretentious side. Most of our troops thought a seven course dinner was a hamburger and a six pack. They were not prepared for escargot and caviar and fish prepared with the eye balls looking back. There being no chow hall in Saigon at that time, and the troops not yet brave enough to attempt the local fare, we had both breakfast and supper at the hotel.

There was a contract hotel with an American kitchen and NCO club, some distance away on Tran Hung Dao, where we sent someone from Tan San Nhut, our work site, to pick up sandwiches for the whole crew at lunch. Since we were all engaged in hard labor setting up the site - erecting S-80s, B-2's and tents; burying cables, erecting radio towers and such, going after lunch was a plum job. However, every village has to have an idiot. We had one troop from 728th at Shaw who was completely useless when it came to work. He screwed up so much stuff that our M/Sgt. put him on permanent chow run. However, that did not last too long. The agreement with the club was that we pay for a week in advance. It seems that he had a weakness for slot machines and, while waiting for our lunches to be prepared, he would while away the time on the quarter machine. But, he was as dumb at that as he was at everything else. After a couple of weeks, the club manager contacted our people and said they needed their money. Well, the Hapless One was on the next C-124 going back to the States.

The next day that I had off, some of us were roaming a giant open air market where every thing under the sun was for sale. While standing in front of stall that was selling pets, a very ugly little monkey attached himself to us and would not let go. Since he did not cost much and like a bulldog, was so ugly that he was cute, we took him back to the radar site and dubbed him Leo. But Leo was a little too rambunctious for his own good. He had an insatiable curiosity mixed with a streak of meanness that soon made him unpopular in some quarters. Our site was set up across from an old French Air Force hanger left over from their colonial days. The hanger was constructed with lots of steel I-beams, which made ideal pigeon roosts all across the ceiling. Leo liked to rob the nests and, when he had eaten his fill, liked to pelt people below with eggs. This did nothing to endear him to some people that were lacking a sense of humor. But alas, poor Leo became addicted to Bah Mui Bah, to the extent that he would not quit jumping on you and pulling your hair until you poured him a beer. Pretty soon all he wanted to do was drink beer and sleep. Leo engaged himself in many more adventures, and was the topic of conversation on many occasions while we relaxed in the many night spots along Rue Tu Do.

Part III - The REAL story

When we Tactical Air Control troops arrived in Saigon, we found a culture far different from ours. The city was teeming with cars, taxies, cyclos, buses, motor scooters, motorcycles, bicycles, and people dressed in every hue in the rainbow, seemingly in constant motion as if viewed through a kaleidoscope.

We were struck immediately by the exotic beauty of the women. Many of the Saigon women were of Eurasian descent; the product of many years of French colonial rule, when the country was known as French Indo-China. They were mostly dressed in the traditional ao dai, a long dress split to the waist ON BOTH SIDES, with near transparent trousers underneath. The sight of these lovelies, weaving in and out of the grid-locked downtown traffic on their Lambrettas, is one that I am sure we all remember fondly.

The populace, in general, were pleasant and very polite to foreigners. At first, there were a confusing number of do's and don'ts associated with interaction with the Vietnamese. Something that stands out in my mind still, is their correct way of summoning someone. This is done by extending your arm, palm down and making a scratching motion with your fingers. It is considered to be rude and assuming a socially superior attitude, to beckon someone with your index finger, as we Americans are want to do. A trait of the Vietnamese people is that they are too polite to say "No" to a foreigner. Many a misunderstanding has resulted from their desire not to offend, and their saying what they think we want to hear. A few of my friends have been sorely disappointed, after spending all night in the same night club, paying for many orders of Saigon Tea while waiting to escort one of the girls home after the place closed, only to find that she was being picked up by her husband, or steady boy friend. Due to the devastating good looks of the women and the relative wealth of our GIs, immediate fraternization was rampant, in spite of the frequent warnings from the Intelligence Section (boy, talk about an oxymoron ) that most of the bar girls were Viet Cong sympathizers. In our naiveté, we firmly believed that a girl so pretty and gentle could NEVER wish us harm. By and large, we found this to be true.

In spite of their beauty, the Saigon girls shared a taste for nuoc mam, a fermented fish AND GARLIC sauce, with the rest of the populace. Sadly, this sauce gave one a breath that would curl the hairs in Godzilla's nose. I well remember being severely distressed one morning, in a poorly ventilated bus, after a night of over indulgence of 33 Export and Scotch, cooped in with about a hundred people who had just had a liberal portion of nuoc mam for breakfast.

Since the Viet Cong had just overrun and captured Phuoc Binh (a provincial capitol just forty miles north of Saigon) in September of 61, our Intelligence briefings were coming fast and furious from the MAAG. One particular night club on the outskirts of Saigon, on the road to Ben Hoa, was deemed to be a Viet Cong outpost by our resident spooks. One night, after several too many beers and scotches, several of us (about eight, I recall) with forty-fives in belts, took a taxi to this den of Communist iniquity, ( Karl thinks it was Rosie's Bar, but I remember something like Starlight Club). This club differed somewhat in it's layout compared to the clubs on Rue To Do. There was a very long, narrow bar with stools all the way down, that bisected a long room across the back. The room in back had rows of semi-private booths to which the rather aggressive hostesses made it their duty to steer the clientele. Being a rather amiable bunch, we were easily herded into the back room, where we were slightly amazed at the lewd and licentious manner in which they encouraged the buying of Saigon tea. In the midst of our revelry, I heard some American voices coming from the front bar. We were a bit apprehensive, and had no desire to be found in an "off limits" place by our MACV bosses. But, just as we were sizing up the back door, I recognized one of the voices. I moved up to the curtain and looked down the bar to find our Commander and four other officers from our outfit, plus three MACV officers, about to allow themselves to be led into the back room. We resumed our places and roared out a greeting for the new arrivals, and told them that it was a Rosies/Starlight custom that new-comers to the back room had to buy the house a round. Our officers were appalled at our audacity to visit the place, and WE were equally appalled that they came unarmed. But our festive spirit was somewhat dampened by the sound of a fire fight and mortar rounds coming from just up the road, in the Michelin rubber plantation. Once again, the resourcefulness and craft of enlisted men proved superior to our officers. We, thinking ahead, had paid our taxi drivers to wait on us for the return to Saigon. Since it was about three in the morning and far from where taxis normally roam, we had to share our cabs with our bosses. There were too many to close the doors, so we were an odd looking sight rolling up to the Majestic Hotel, where the security personnel, who were used to a more decorous customer, gave us close scrutiny.

To be continued . . .