Canadian drafted to the Vietnam War
The first thing I noticed about Pete Smith was his twinkling blue eyes.
Those eyes that looked so merry and bright have witnessed firsthand the atrocities of war. Not World War One or Two but that most unpopular war, the Vietnam War.
Not that any war is popular, but the Vietnam War was particularly unpopular.
I was sitting in the kitchen of Pete and his wife, Ellen, listening to his story of how he ended up fighting for the Americans in Vietnam.
The main reason for such loathing of this particular war was that the American public could not understand why they should send their young men to fight in a country that really held nothing worth gaining to the Americas, but nothing could be further from the truth.
As Pete spoke, I found myself leaning in, hanging on his every word. I was transfixed with awe at the shear bravery that this man, a Canadian, drafted into the American army, showed not only in the obvious danger of war but also of the danger of fighting in a most inhospitable environment. The jungle is full of things that go bump, not only in the night but also in the day. Pete told me that the only way to sleep was on your back, because you never sleep as soundly on your back as you do on your side. There was one occasion that he heard a hushed, hoarse whisper in his ear, “don’t move.” He slowly opened his eyes and in one fell swooping motion dislodged a rather large cobra off his chest. There was one particularly nasty snake that was called the “Steppinhaff.” This snake delivered a lethal bite that let you only take a step and a half and that was it for you… lights out… permanently. If the snakes weren’t enough to give you the heebie-jeebies then how about spiders the size of basketballs complete with foot long, barbed hairy legs, their webs massively spun between trees as far apart as four feet.
So, how did a Canadian going to school to be a teacher end up in a jungle a few thousand miles away? Well, the Americans have this little thing called the draft. Since Pete had a green card and a social security number, he was considered fair game to draft into the army. Sadly, he was due to graduate in June and he was drafted in April. Some things are just not fair.
Pete duly went to Fort Riley, Kansas to do his basic training and sailed with flying colours through his aptitude tests, after all, nothing less would be expected from a scholar such as he. From there he went to Dak To, the 4th Battalion, Ninth Division.
The year was 1966, December the month when a twenty-something Pete was deployed to Berr Cat Base Camp. Pete showed me an aerial photo of the camp and by all accounts it was quite large. Pete is a friendly sort of fellow and soon made great mates. Barry (who still lives in Bethesda Maryland) was a partner in his coping antics. They would procure a jeep (usually an officers) and have a little jaunt into Saigon to blow off some steam. He told me of riding shotgun (he was asleep) and his buddy Barry driving (who was also sleeping) when they ran head long into a raised triangle of asphalt. They were jolted awake and thankful that they were alive and even better that the jeep was still drivable to get back to the base. They never told anyone of this adventure, Pete laughed as he pictured the jeep pool worker scratching his head wondering what in the world had caused this damage.
Not all things were of a jovial matter. War has many faces most of them terrifying. There were times while Pete was talking that he had to stop and take a deep breath, his chin quaking with the grief of long buried memories, even I felt myself pressing my lips tightly together to stop them from trembling and trying very hard to keep the tears away. PTSD is very real.
Pete was a member of the LRRP, Long Range Recon Patrol. He told me that they would head out in groups of five men. The first in line led the way, making as little noise and disturbing the vegetation as little as possible, maybe break through one of those giant spiderwebs. The second man held the compass making sure they were heading in the right direction. Third man in line was the most important, he carried the radio. The fourth and fifth in line were usually in the most precarious positions because all the creepy crawlies that the first three walkers had awakened were now working their way all over the feet and legs of the rear of the pack. Pete talks about leeches that would start at his big toe and wind all the way round the heel, thick as a well-fed snake.
Pete was a specially trained army individual. Working his way through AIT (Advanced Infantry Training) his talents led him to work a piece of equipment that could pick up movement up to 1,500 meters away. Pete was so specialized in this equipment that he would be able to tell the difference between the sound of a man, woman, child or even an elephant. This was because men take larger strides, women and children much smaller steps. The elephant, well, they tend to leave a calling card.
Pete spent a year in Vietnam, he saw men dying, had to kill the enemy to save his life or that of his fellow comrades. He told me of a particular exercise involving five men, which was to be a three-day mission. Unfortunately, that mission turned into a 93-day mission. They only had food and water for the three days, so to survive they had to take rice from bloated dead bodies, drink water from rice paddies that even oxen would be loath to drink. Survive they did, and lived to tell about it.
One of the most unusual things that Pete saw was a deuce and a half truck seemingly rise up out of the ground, a major network of tunnels was the solution to that question. Pete and one of his convoy also found what appeared to be a well. Thinking that they would climb down and see what was down there (very brave souls) found that this well went down an amazing seven storeys. It was a hidden cache of weapons and ammunition for the enemy.
Pete showed me his dog tags, they were wrapped with green duct tape, he explained that this was to stop them from clanging together and making a noise that could alert the enemy to their whereabouts. If the dog tag has an RA in front of the number it means that you volunteered or joined on purpose to the Armed Forces. If your dog tag has a US in front of the numbers then you were drafted. Dog tags always come in doubles, there is a specific reason for that. Bodies can’t always be brought home or even back to a camp so one of the dog tags is placed in the mouth of the deceased (if one is still present) and the other is taken back to where ever the camp is. This is so they know who is dead and if the body is ever recovered there is a piece of identification on the body. The old saying, “all’s fair in love and war” comes from survivors pilfering from the deceased, after all they won’t be needing their provisions where they’re going.
Pete went on to tell me about how many close calls he had with the enemy. There was a time when he and his buddy Barry went for a swim. There were a group of fellows on the shore who were kicking up the dust making it almost impossible to get clean. They ventured further down the creek and rounded a corner. It was then that Pete looked down to notice a bootprint just starting to fill in with water. Needless to say, they made a hasty but quiet retreat back to the original part of the creek. They all got out of the area rather quickly.
The rule of entry into a zone was one way in, a different way out, that way the enemy couldn’t just follow your trail and catch you on the flip side. Unfortunately, there was a time when they were making their way across a river when, too late, a big red flag was noticed. The underwater bomb went off and Pete found himself wearing the grey matter of the fellow who had been sitting beside him.
The combination of moonlight, jungle and fear can wreak havoc on your nerves. Pete said that there were times when he was certain that he had seen a figure by that tree just feet away. He would turn slowly and whisper to his buddy to have a look in that direction to have his second set of eyes say that no, he didn’t see anything. The bush was nothing new to Pete, he grew up in Parry Sound so was used to being in the bush and distinguishing reality from figments of imagination. The next day they could see where the vegetation had been crushed by the movement of many pairs of feet passing by. Silence is a well-earned gift.
Many of the local people were very grateful for the help that was there in the form of fighting men. Pete remembers a pair of very young sisters walking with their baby brother as they were looking for a sniper in a temple area. The sight of these children reaffirmed the reason for the fighting that was the war in Vietnam. Pete said that in the one year that he was in Vietnam he saw 240 days of active combat. In the other fighting that was taking place in the South Pacific most soldiers only saw 40 days in a four-year period.
I asked Pete what the food was like and he told me that there was only one thing that he could eat. It was a small can of bully beef in gravy. He only ate once a day, he said that you lived on cigarettes, anything to keep your nerves steady. He showed me a little piece of dark green metal that he keeps on his key chain to this very day. Non-descript really, sharp little edge that Pete said he no longer sharpens, but is better than a Swiss Army Knife. Works as a can opener, screw driver and could probably kill something with it if he had to. I was rather taken aback when he told me how he used to heat up his can of bully beef with a little piece of C4, no bigger than the very end of his pinky. He said that you never stomped out the fire or you would lose your foot.
In talking to Pete, I was humbled to the core to be in the company of such a brave man, but angered at the same time. The reason? Pete told me that Canadians who fought in Vietnam are not recognized for what they did, for the sacrifice that some 134 people gave in the form of their lives. Not only are they not acknowledged here in Canada but not even in the United States, and it’s not only Canadians that fought alongside the Americans but also Australians and New Zealanders. When Pete first came to Creemore he went to join the Legion, but was told in no uncertain terms that fighting in Vietnam didn’t make him a veteran. I am making my personal mission to try to rectify this great misdemeanour. The families of those who gave their lives should be recognized for their supreme sacrifice even if it was for a war that was so unpopular. I hope that you will join me in my quest to have their names forever remembered. I intend to write to my local MP and even to the Minister of National Defence. Don’t let the names of those who gave so much be lost forever.
