A Night at Trang Sup
In 1966-67 I was stationed in a Special Force Camp called Trang Sup outside of Tay Ninh City. The camp was located in what had once been a French fort. I was an Air Force long-range radar repairman attached to Det. 7 of the 619th Tactical Control Squadron. One inky night, a large enemy force surrounded our camp. Their purpose was not to attack the military personnel in the camp, but rather the families of some of the Vietnamese military assigned to the camp. These families lived in the village of Trang Sup just outside the camp perimeter. Charlie wanted to prevent the Special Forces people and their South Vietnamese counterparts from coming to the rescue of the villagers, and they succeeded.
After surrounding us, they methodically mortared and raked the village with small arms fire, finally setting it ablaze while we remained bottled up in camp. The phrase ‘with malice aforethought’ aptly applies to this act of calculated, cold-blooded murder. It seemed to last for hours while we watched from the camp in frustrated anger and anguish, but it was really all over in minutes. The VC knowingly and deliberately killed innocent women, children and old people with one purpose in mind: terrorize and punish them and their military family members for being aligned with the governments of South Vietnam and the United States. Their message was that, although we were within spitting distance, we could be neutralized long enough for them to create havoc and get away.
I have no first hand knowledge of atrocities that may have been committed by the U.S. military or their allies in Vietnam, but I personally witnessed this particular act of icily detached, barbaric cruelty by elements associated with the government of North Vietnam. This was not a reading of dry statistics or some scuttlebutt passed on to me. I was an unwilling participant. I saw it; I smelled it; I heard it. I saw the villagers’ all too real agony and fear; I heard their weeping and moaning. I was smeared with their blood when I helped to evacuate the wounded. It was a vicious, premeditated action perpetrated in my presence on helpless people I knew. I can remember some of them giving me friendly little pats on the arm during normal day-to-day encounters. It only serves to worsen the painful memory of the suffering they underwent that dark night while I watched.
Maybe it made such a deep impression on me because I was not trained for combat. I know it is an experience I will never forget and it helps me understand why people who saw and experienced much more than I did feel as they do.
© 2001 Thurman P. Woodfork
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Guitars, Sandbags, and Saigon Tea
Sitting on the sandbags watching the war,
Wondering what on earth I volunteered for.
Hearing Larry’s Guitar softly play,
Pondering just what I’ve accomplished today.
Riding in a cyclo down Tu Do Street,
Watching ladies in Ao Dais, clean and neat.
Gliding by bar girls with sirens’ eyes
Offering Saigon Tea and enticing thighs.
Smelling burnt flesh, a bitter stink
Seeing young-old eyes that never blink.
Listening to White as he pats his feet
Strumming his guitar while keeping the beat.
Hearing my voice singing soft and low
Shouting folks back home snarling, “I won’t go!”
Sitting down on the end of my rack
Thinking ‘bout the ones who won’t come back.
Staring at the tracers, neon bright
Searching for a life to snuff tonight.
Crouching behind sandbags fighting the war
Knowing now exactly what I volunteered for:
Preserving the right of the people to be free
To spit on the Flag, this uniform, and me.
© 2001 Thurman P. Woodfork
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